Museum Mishap
by Kokoro-no-Kaji
Summary: Kid!Tim is on a field trip, but with a WE exhibition being staged in the basement, Tim separates from his classmates using the skills he's developed stalking Batman. Robin!Jason catches him in the act, but he's not there to confront Tim for truancy. There's a disturbing rumor that Tim knows Batman's secrets. Tim catches a drug-lord's attention and Jason jumps into the crossfire.
1. Chapter 1: Special Access

Chapter One – Special Access

A trip to Gotham's History of Science and Technology Museum would've been exciting for even your average twelve year old – it was a day of school that didn't feel like school, and it meant a chance to hang out, relatively unsupervised, with your friends all day instead of just the one or two classes you managed to luck into having together.

Timothy Jackson Drake was not your average twelve year old, and a trip to the SciTech Muse was the kind of thing that made his enrollment in middle school entirely worth it. For starters, it was an entire day spent in the heart of the city surrounded by some of the coolest artefacts of science humans could craft.

And to make things even better, the trip was an all-day, delayed opening affair, starting at 10am and ending at 6pm – which meant he'd actually been able to get enough sleep last night to be well-rested, a rarity in its own right with his particular extra curriculars. Better yet, he'd been able to tell the Drake housekeeper / nanny that he'd be having dinner with his class so she could go home right at 6 without having to wait for him to get back so she could cook for him.

That part wasn't true, of course, but he had concrete evidence that had been legitimately published by the school to help back up his story. Mrs. Simz had her own kid, and was therefore harder to convince than some of the others Tim's parents had hired, but that also meant she had more reason to hurry home when presented with a believable reason excusing it.

Being a sixth-grader meant Tim couldn't just stay in the heart of the city when the field trip was over, he was on a rollcall and the bus back to Gotham Academy wouldn't leave without his name getting checked off. The high schoolers were allowed to take public transit home if they had a signed permission slip from their parents, but Tim had to wait a few more years before he could con his way into having such freedoms.

Still, getting over to the West Side from where his school was in Coventry would be far easier than getting there from the Drake Estate way out in Bristol. The extra hour and a half he'd save himself in commuting time mean he would be able to grab some coffee and something to eat without having to rush to get in place for the nighttime adventure he'd planned.

Beyond all that, the fact that the field trip was this week, meant there was a special exhibition from the cutting-edge tech division of Wayne Enterprises in the midst of being set up. All the main components were being staged in the museum's basement and the ones too big to steal were as close to unprotected as they would ever be – and Tim intended to take full advantage of that.

He'd been summarily denied acceptance to the WayeTech summer camps as his parents owned one of the company's main competitors: Drake Industries. Apparently corporate espionage was a big enough problem that even ten year olds were suspect. Tim found it ridiculous that the one time he would've been entirely okay with having his abilities underestimated was the one time he wasn't assumed to be just another dumb kid. Honestly, Tim was pretty sure that no one had actually read his application – the computer had probably scanned his ID and kicked his profile out of the running before it had even made it to a human that might care about his actual qualifications.

Tim hadn't figured out how to make a bulletproof fake identity profile – not yet, at least – And he certainly wasn't going to get caught trying to gain illegal access to WE on a sub-par fake ID. Because there were all kinds of ways that would go poorly for him – between his parents possibly being disappointed in him enough to hire a live-in Nanny to the legal ramifications he'd face, even as a minor, it just wasn't worth it.

But the thought of getting an up-close look at the new tech WE was rolling out still made Tim's heart pound like he'd just downed a full pot of coffee. WE took a very different approach to developing their tech than DI – more of a 'you know what would be cool? can we make that reasonable?' philosophy than a 'how do we solve this problem?' sort of thing. Tim found the both the WE approach and their results utterly fascinating.

Not that Tim had been allowed to play with much of DI's tech, being that his parents would hear about him attempting to gain unsupervised lab access, and promptly ground him, and anyone who might supervise treated him like a kid far too young to understand or unobtrusively observe the work going on inside the places he wanted to see.

So, the fact that a spectacular spread of WE tech was set up in the basement of a rather glaringly unsecured staff only area in the very building Tim's class was touring stood as an open invitation for Tim to investigate.

An invitation that Tim took very seriously. He'd spent at least 18 hours over the past week examining the museum's blueprints – courtesy of the Gotham City Hall Public Archives – And the rundown of the security, both in terms of the human guards and staff on-hand and the electronic countermeasures – via close examination of the extensive repertoire of 'insider access' videos on the museum's own webpage. Tim would probably end up sending the museum an anonymous suggestion about adjusting that at some point, but he'd worry about that later.

After he used it to his tech fantasy fulfillment advantage.

For now, he simply slipped away from the unwatchful eyes of his teachers, stuck headphones in his ears, and carefully made his way – casually, calmly, and like he had no destination in mind – over to the hallway by the cafeteria neat the east wing gift shop. The hallway that had restrooms and a staff-only door halfway down it, a door secured with a heavy-duty machine-lock, with a ten-digit keypad, but was not alarmed.

The human guards were always more focused on preventing shoplifters from stealing over-priced – for a good cause, but still over-priced – museum memorabilia than on the high-traffic restroom hall by the cafeteria. Using his headphones as an excuse to tap his fingers to keep count – while his eyes and most of his brainpower focused on evaluating targets – Tim tracked the museum employees on their lunch breaks and calculated the best option to use as his ticket backstage. He had some in mind, but he had contingencies for last-minute adjustment.

Tim settled on a big guy whose name he'd read on staff profiles but had forgotten with the other useless information provided about his role in the marketing department. What Tim hadn't forgotten about him was that his department's office was right by the staff door he was eyeing – 4.5 meters down and to the left, to be exact – which meant that, even with his slow stride, he would be behind another door in the hallway approximately 17 seconds after the door Tim needed closed behind him.

When Mr. Marketing got up and lumbered over to the trash, Tim sidled over towards an informational sign with a museum map. As Mr. Marketing passed him, Tim counted off 4 seconds before he turned around to follow. He slid his hand into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the u-shaped metallic magnet he'd had to smuggle in by jamming it into in might and using sleight of hand to pretend it was his retainer – Less than sanitary, but effective, and he'd taken an extra vitamin this morning as a precaution.

Mr. Marketing punched in his code and pulled the door open to well over 90° before he lumbered through the gap. Tim kept his pace consistent; patient, he could be patient – even though it made his heart rate kick up uncomfortably as he put his faith in his calculations instead of in his feet. He reached the door with almost 6 inches of clearance left for him to slide his hand in and clip his magnet into place over the latch.

The door closed as he withdrew his hand and kept walking, but it did not click.

The machine lock whirred with an attempt to close, but its components struck the flat surface of his magnet and failed to properly secure the door. Had the door been alarmed, that would have drawn a lot of unwanted attention, but as it was Tim made it to the restroom with almost nothing noticeably amiss.

The restroom was crowded enough that his entrance didn't draw attention and he shut himself in one of the stalls to count off exactly 10 seconds. Then he washed his hands, acquired a paper towel that he did not immediately dispose of, and went to retrieve his magnet. The paper towel allowed him to grasp the handle without leaving fingerprints and he retrieved his magnet without incident – opening the door onto an empty hallway and promptly swerving right to access the unsecured stairwell he knew would be there.

Tim had no way to hide himself from the singular security camera watching the hallway, but the area was so highly trafficked that he doubted any security guard had been monitoring closely enough to spot his detour. He would get in a ton of trouble if he was caught here – phone calls to his parents would be unavoidable and they'd likely be so angry at him they'd fly back from Spain a week early. But he'd almost certainly avoid any kind of legal consequences.

Besides, he wasn't going to get caught. He'd planned this too well for that.

Tim made his way through the less convenient passageways in the museum's basement until he reached the corner of the sub-basement where the WayneTech exhibit was being staged. It was, as he'd known it would be, isolated and completely vacant of staff.

A smile split his face as the relief he felt in making it there successfully was quickly replaced by the buzz of unadulterated excitement. He set his backpack down carefully – mindful, as always, of his precious camera. Then he rolled up his sleeves as he stepped closer to the first machine he saw with the WE logo stamped proudly on its side.

According to the signage prepped in the binder sitting next to the behemoth, it was a component of the quantum computer WayneTech was developing to facilitate physically interactive virtual realities. Tim bounced on his toes as he warred with himself – half wanting to read more about the technical specs and half wanting to dive right in and see it for himself.

Tim made it through another two pages of engineering details before he gave up and literally tackled the machine to hoist himself up high enough to look inside via the glass panel built in for that specific purpose. There were at least a dozen windows in the casing and Tim wondered – for a brief moment of distraction from the tech itself as he clambered higher up its exterior – how the museum was going to work in ramps and such for visitors to get the best views. If he didn't get arrested tonight or banned from the museum forever, he might have to come back to see it in its full glory.

He'd finagled his way to the last protrusion from top and was marveling at the neat rows of complicated wiring laid out below him when something crucial changed: he discovered that he was not, in fact, alone.

"Ya know, I don't think you're supposed to be down here."

Tim really wanted to pretend he didn't yelp like a kicked puppy when the sudden voice scared him half out of his skin, but the basement echoed enough for to know it would be ridiculous to think the newcomer hadn't heard him. Tim ducked his head in shame as his ears burned red and he turned to face whoever had caught him with hunched shoulders and guilty hands raised in surrender.

And then he spotted his accuser on the floor and froze.

It was Jason Peter Todd.

Jason Peter Todd – Bruce Wayne's new ward and the new Robin. And also kinda Tim's neighbor. Well, as far as the word 'neighbor' applied when your respective estates were so big it took an hour to hike door to door. Tim's brain got caught in a loop of wondering what the frack Jason Peter Todd, of all people, was doing at the museum on a Thursday afternoon. Was doing down here, in this particular sub-basement, on a Thursday afternoon.

Tim had fully been expecting to see the new Robin today, but that was when he was in full costume and wasn't supposed to be for at least ten more hours. And Tim had not – in any of his contingencies – planned for Robin to see him.

"Uh, hi," Tim floundered.

"Hi," returned the crime fighting teenager Tim idolized and had been planning to stalk through Coventry later today. There was a glint in his eyes as he stared up at Tim with a smirk.

They stared at each other in silence for way longer than could possibly be considered reasonable and Tim's ears resumed to burn at that, and at the distinct realization he had no idea what to say next.

Because what exactly are you supposed to say when Jason Peter Todd catches you red handed in an off-limits part of a museum? Sitting on top of a piece of cutting edge computer engineering that you had absolutely no right to touch?

"You're Tim Drake, aren't you," Jason asked – in a way that was definitely not really a question and also made it clear that Jason was laughing at him. "We met last month at the charity gala. I'm Jason."

"I remember, Mr. Todd," Tim spouted, falling back on the robotic safety net of manners his mother had drilled into him. "Um, what brings you here?"

"It's just 'Jason', kid." He jerked his chin at the machine Tim clung to, continuing, "That shit's WayneTech. B sent me over to make sure it's got all the right bits with it."

Tim nodded like a puppet, trying not to drown in his horror as he realized what it meant that Jason had caught him. He was messing with tech that Batman owned. There were probably a hundred undetectable BatSecurity features on this thing. Robin had probably been sent to see if someone was trying to steal it when one of Batman's invisible alarms had gone off.

"How about you, kid," Jason asked, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his cargo pants. He regarded Tim with openly amused parody as he asked, "What brings you here?"

"Field trip," Tim responded automatically.

"Field trip?" Jason echoed with an incredulous chuckle.

He stared at Tim for another long moment and Tim stared back, terrified and unblinking and too tongue tied to substantiate his claim.

"Alright then," Jason said eventually, with a one shoulder shrug inside his leather jacket. "So, you got yourself stuck up there or are you gonna come have lunch with me?"

"Lunch?"

"Yeah, ya know, food. You eat it," Jason explained. "I know I could use some pizza."

Tim frowned – at the confirmation of the non-sequitur of lunch plans, not the various insults attached to it.

Jason seemed to falter briefly. "You actually stuck up there, Tim?"

"No," Tim huffed, willing to admit he sounded slightly petulant about it.

"Well then get your skinny ass down here," Jason prompted – a beat too late in a way Tim didn't quite understand. He blinked, trying to puzzle out what didn't sit right, but Jason arched an eyebrow – in the way Tim had seen him do as Robin, magically managing the expression despite the mask – and Tim realized he was supposed to be doing something.

He was already in enough trouble as it was, so Tim scrambled down the computer and found himself face to face with the second Robin. Or face to chest, as it were.

Tim hadn't hit his growth spurt yet, so he knew he was a scrawny twelve, but he hadn't thought Jason would be that much taller. Jason was only two years older and he was stocky to start with. It was different when he'd been in the suit he'd worn for the charity gala. In civvies he looked broad and strong, and he stood up straighter.

Jason pulled one hand from his pocket and threw his arm around Tim's shoulders – began dragging him towards the exit. Tim lunged for his backpack as they passed it and clutched it close to his chest as Jason continued to drag him back upstairs.

They ended up in the west cafeteria, in a corner that Jason had clearly selected for it's state of semi-privacy. It was crowded and public enough to make raised voices problematic, but private enough to discuss sensitive details without much worry of being over heard. And it was neutral ground, like Jason was trying to make Tim comfortable before hashing out exactly how much trouble he was in for touching Batman's stuff without express permission.

Jason had acquired a large pizza, dripping with extra cheese and a blanket of peperoni, and two double-thick paper plates – one of which he piled high with three slices and placed in front of Tim. He gave himself five slices and settled down to chat having somehow already inhaled half of a sixth.

"So," Jason started around a mouthful of food as Tim poked tentatively as his own serving, "Some people are saying you've got some sort of connection to the Batman."

Tim frowned, his gaze snapping up to evaluate Jason.

He'd spoken quietly, conspiratorially – like he wanted in on a secret Tim had. Like he wasn't about to threaten to hang Tim by his thumbs in the depths of Batman's secret lair for the rest of the foreseeable future.

Awareness that Jason didn't know that Tim knew his vigilante identity sparked inside Tim's brain. He might be able to get out of this. If Robin didn't know then Tim was only in trouble for touching the quantum computer because Batman didn't want anyone touching it, and Jason was limited in how he could exact vengeance because the wrong move would reveal his role as Robin. All Tim had to do was talk his way out of this.

Tim could do that. Right?

All he had to do was figure out how.

"I'm sorry I touched the quantum computer," he blurted.

Probably not like that.

Tim hunched down into his shoulders and poked again at his pizza to avoid eye contact with Jason. His ears began to burn again as he felt Jason staring at him.

"Shit, kid," Jason said, after swallowing his bite this time, "You're not in trouble."

Tim's finger paused mid-poke. "I'm not?"

"Nah," Jason promised. "Fuck the Man."

Tim blinked. "Then why are you talking to me?"

Jason blinked. A sort of confused expression that was vaguely pitying flickered across his face. Then he reiterated, "'Cause I hear you know who the Batman is, ya know, under the cowl."

Okay. So, Jason didn't know he knew, but he suspected.

Tim could work with that. Probably.

He took a bite of pizza purely to keep himself from blurting anymore unhelpful apologies and attempted to calculate the best response.

"Nobody knows who Batman is," Tim said eventually.

"But you're a fan, right?" Jason nodded at Tim sweater – at the big black and yellow R embroidered on the left-hand side of the red-wool knitwork. Mrs. Davis had made this sweater for him, before her kids had insisted that she retire from babysitting rich Gotham kids and go be a grandmother in the safety and comfort of their town in Florida. Mrs. Davis had been one of the very few people who had supported Tim's moderately obsessive interest in Batman and Robin.

She hadn't really understood, but Tim missed her – missed being able to talk about it.

"You've gotta have some theories," Jason was saying, his voice persistent enough to pull Tim back out from inside his own head.

"I don't have any theories," Tim said. And it was true enough. He'd had theories. But that was before. Now, he had evidence. Another bite of pizza kept him from saying that out loud.

"Seriously? None?"

Tim shrugged and counted the circles of peperoni left on his first slice. 9 more circles, fifteen more bites. His stomach was already wary of the food he was putting in it. If this interrogation lasted more than ten bites, Tim's stomach would probably begin to protest.

Adamantly.

He peeked up at Jason. Who was somehow already finishing slice number three.

"Then why's the word on the street that you've got insider know-how on ole Batsy?"

"I dunno," Tim said with another shrug. Truthfully, the question was bothering him too.

Tim had never been seen when he'd staked out a spot to catch the dynamic duo on patrol or in the midst of a big bust. Never. They would've confronted him then and there if they'd ever found him with a camera full of very clear photos of them in action.

So, how did Robin know enough to suspect him?

"Who'd you hear it from?"

This time, Jason shrugged. "I dunno. People. But like seriously, you don't have any fucking idea why someone would think you know Batman's real name?"

Tim shook his head silently. He wanted to save his pizza for the questions that really needed him to have something to do with his mouth other than blabbing out his secrets.

"Huh."

Jason's eyes were narrowed, not quite threateningly, but pressingly – like he wasn't quite sure a threat would be appropriate, but he was certain that Tim wasn't telling the truth. It was another look Tim had captured him using as Robin. A kind of gentled-down BatglareTM for Robin to use on uncooperative victims instead of how Batman used his on uncooperative criminals – because victims could be uncooperative for all kinds of non-criminal reasons.

Tim suddenly understood why it was so effective.

He squirmed in his seat and caved to the need to take another bite of pizza.

But he wasn't a victim. Was he?

Suddenly, Robin's presence at the museum seemed a lot more suspect. It made sense for Robin to be there because Tim had triggered some sort of invisible Batalarm on the quantum computer, but he'd gotten there way too quickly for that to have been what brought him to the museum initially. He'd've had to have already been inside the building.

But why?

Tim's class had been scheduled for this museum trip over a month ago. He'd even talked about it briefly with Bruce Wayne himself at the charity gala he'd attended with his parents – that's how he'd known about the WayneTech exhibition far enough in advance to plan effectively to sneak down to the basements.

"When'd you start hearing that rumor?"

Tim's question was so sudden and loud in his own ears that he startled himself.

He seemed to have startled Jason too – who was starting on pizza slice number five and appeared to have been in the middle of a sentence when Tim had jolted into questioning him.

"Uh, about a week ago, I guess," Jason explained. "Your name had come up a few times before that in regards to you being a fan, but it wasn't too long ago that it changed to you having special access or some shit."

Tim nodded absently.

Two weeks ago, there'd been a major drug bust in a neighborhood just over half a mile away from his school. Batman had been tipped off about the drug ring in the same way Tim had: kids who came to school high rode the bus home and the chalk marks on the benches at the stops used by the kids who were using weren't terribly sophisticated code.

Tim had snagged some really spectacular shots the night that bust went down.

Several of Tim's classmates had exhibited symptoms of withdrawal shortly after that. A few of those students – namely some who'd never seemed to be able to have a civil conversation or simply let Tim pass in silence – had stopped exhibiting those symptoms a few days later. Tim had assumed they'd found a new dealer.

Maybe they'd needed to find something more valuable to trade too, to make up for getting their old dealer busted.

Info on the Bat who'd busted them would be pretty valuable.

Even just a lead on info would've been valuable. Tim had been outright stalking Batman and Robin for over a third of his entire lifespan, at this point, and only just recently figured out who Batman really was. And he was a verified genius who'd happenstantially acquired the right life experiences to recognize things like quadruple somersaults. Who'd circumstantially idolized and stalked two different costumed acrobats for several years before he realized they were actually the same person and begun to extrapolate from there.

Nobody knew anything about Batman.

A tip on someone who might, would be very valuable indeed.

Tim was being interrogated by Robin because he was a victim. He just hadn't been victimized quite yet.

Tim dropped his pizza like it'd burned him and began to rifle through his backpack for the new cellphone his mother had bought him when school started. It was 'so he could fit in with his peers'. It was too big to fit in his pocket and he'd never liked wearing a watch, so he'd had to dig to find it and figure out the time.

It was 4:32pm.

Shift change for the guards was in less than an hour and they were already definitely antsy for it. Most of the science staff were already heading home to beat the traffic, and most of the new guards wouldn't be coming in for at least another twenty minutes.

If Tim were going to lead a team to invade this place a capture an unwilling potential asset, he would do it in the next ten to fifteen minutes.

"We have to get out of here."

Jason frowned, his confusion pronounced with wary unease. But he demonstrated a willingness to trust Tim at his word for no other reason than Tim wanted him to and clambered to his feet. He took his last slice of pizza with him though – and nabbed the two untouched pieces from Tim's plate as he followed.

"What's wrong, Tim," Jason asked, carefully nonchalant. His hands were full of pizza in the way Tim's mouth had been to stop him from doing what he wanted to do when asked a stupid question he should've known better than to answer – Tim suspected that if Jason wasn't holding onto the pizza he'd've grabbed Tim's shoulder at this point.

Tim didn't know how to answer at all, let alone efficiently communicate what he'd deduced about their current situation. Especially not without revealing that he knew Jason was Robin and could guess why Robin was here talking to him to begin with.

Jason was rapidly eating though the pizza that was keeping him from grabbing onto Tim's arm to stop their not-so-subtle scramble towards the museum's main exit. They made it to within sight of the doors before Jason had inhaled the last piece of crust, and Tim had probably ignored several unheard comments and questions about their rapid egress, when Jason finally lost the battle to avoid physical contact and wrapped his hand around Tim's elbow.

Tim swung around to face him as his inertia asserted dominance.

"Timmy, what's got you so spooked?" Jason asked. "C'mon. You can tell me. Anything. I won't rat on you, even if it's something bad. Lemme help."

"I can't – it's not – You don't," Tim could practically feel the whine building in his voice at all the false starts that his brain attempted to send through his mouth to make the act of communication happen. His brain apparently thought it worked something like magic.

Tim was frustrated and embarrassed and still very acutely aware of the fact that they needed to get out of the building. Right now.

And Jason was doing the Robin look, the other one – the one for the scared little bunnies of the victims they came across that needed to be soothed and calmed and promised that they had a friend somewhere in the cold cruel world. Tim knew why it worked – felt it working on him – and yet he was mortified that Robin thought it necessary.

He wasn't a bunny. He was an asset. Currently being targeted.

Recentered, he focused and forced words to come out of his mouth intelligibly.

"We have to get out of the building."

Jason had moved to holding onto both of Tim's shoulders at some point – holding him steady, holding him still. He looked Tim right in the eye and asked gently, "Why?"

The words got jammed up in Tim's throat again and he squeaked.

And then the museum's windows exploded inward with a dramatic shower of glass and gunfire as more goons than Tim could count began to repel their way inside.

Tim closed his eyes and winced at the bite of regret on how fracking close they'd been to getting out of this without any major complications.

"That's why," he groaned.


	2. Chapter 2: Gut Feelings

Chapter 2: Gut Feelings

Jason was skipping school on a Thursday because there were some things he just couldn't let slide, some questions he couldn't keep himself from pulling on the thread that could lead him to uncomfortable, but necessary answers.

He knew Bruce would disapprove. He'd be getting a lecture from the man about this later and he'd probably wind up benched from patrol for the next week, at least.

But if this worked out in one of the two ways he worried it might, he'd either get a consolation cupcake from Alfred or be able to rub it in Batman's face that he'd been right. Or he could be totally wrong about this whole thing and little Timmy Drake was neither a threat to their secret identities nor in danger himself because of that supposed knowledge.

Jason wasn't exactly a gambling man, and he'd way rather be wrong in this case, but he had too much experience with drug dealers and what they could get their junkies to do to just let this kind of thing go without investigating. Because dealers were scum, and they were lying assholes, and they always cut their product... but Jason had never seen one bluff.

So, here Jason was, kicking through the crowded streets of the Upper West Side towards the History of Science Museum or some shit, looking for a singular rich-kid middle-schooler on a class trip – on nothing more than a hunch, an almost non-existent rumor, and a bad feeling.

He found the museum with no problem, having used its expansive and conveniently positioned roof plenty of times with B to pause and scan the area while out on patrol. It looked different from the ground, but it was still a big ass building, and Jason made his way inside – instinctively ducking his head a bit to hide his face from the security cameras.

Step one. Done.

Now, all he had to do was find the fucking kid, figure out if he actually knew anything about his and Batman's secret identities, and see if he knew how someone in a relatively tiny and otherwise unimpressive drug cartel knew about little Timmy Drake's secret knowledge.

The Sabinis were new on the scene and small – catering to mostly the amphetamine crowds in the areas around rich-kid high schools. B thought the rumor that they had a bead on a kid that knew the Batman's real identity was all bluff and bluster – that they were just trying to prop themselves up to seem more important than they were.

But Tim Drake was a very specific name, and his school was one of the ones the Sabinis had targeted. And it was easy enough to arrange a happenstance encounter with him that Jason could use as a mild interrogation. Just to test the waters, as it were.

He probably wasn't going to get the kid to straight out admit he knew something he shouldn't, but he was good enough at reading people – something even B admitted – to know when they were hiding something, and with B's interrogation lessons, Jason was getting pretty damn good at figuring out exactly what someone was hiding.

It was just a matter of finding the damn brat and getting him to talk.

Surprisingly, considering the size of the museum and all the twisty little side passages that wove through the different galleries and exhibits, it wasn't difficult to find the Gotham Prep A1 sixth grade class as they meandered through the computational developments of the early 1950's. One of their teachers had a fairly solid glare to keep the kids in line, but only one, and she was occupied with the kids near the front – silencing the ones who were chit-chatting away without the courtesy to hang back, like the others too cool for school, and were disturbing the kids who were actually interested in the docent's ongoing lecture.

That lady was the only one of the teachers with any kind of demonstrable control over the kids, the only one paying them any attention at all really. It would be a fucking cinch to sidle over and separate the Drake kid from the crowd if he could ID him.

He just had to figure out if the kid was one of the ones up front, or hanging back.

Jason had skimmed B's files on Timothy Drake, but it wasn't the right kind of info for him to know his personality type or how to isolate him in a crowd. Jason had met the kid before, and he never forgot a face, so he wasn't too worried. It would just take a minute.

Or not.

As Jason watched – from close enough to be associated with the touring class, but not so close that the class cared about his proximity – one of the kids split off from the group. It was a slick move, to be honest, an edging around a column to a blind spot in his supervision and a quick swing around a corner that took him to an entirely different gallery.

Jason followed.

It was definitely Tim Drake – the scrawny little thing was instantly recognizable as Jason got a clear look at him. He didn't look like the kind of person who could figure out Batman's secret identity. He didn't look like he could stare down a stiff breeze without flinching.

But that just meant getting to the bottom of this rumor was even more important. If Tim was innocent and a bad guy found him before the rumor was dispelled, Jason worried little Timmy wouldn't fare well – honestly, he looked like he could be traumatized by a stern glare.

Suddenly, Jason was glad he'd decided to do this in civvies.

Confronting this kid as Robin would be terrifying to someone so skittish. Having Batman be there, even in the background, might make the little scrap piss himself. Poor kid didn't deserve that shit. Even if he did know Batman's secret identity.

Right. Focus.

Tim Drake was obviously a BatFan. He was wearing – more like drowning – in a hand-made over-sized red sweater that had the Robin R emblazoned proudly on the left side of his chest. And his plain black backpack had a pin with the BatSymbol stuck on it like an ID tag.

Maybe he did know something.

Jason followed him as he meandered through the SciTech halls – pausing when he did and pretending to examine whatever exhibit he was closest to until the kid moved on. Jason was beginning to think that the kid was just too smart for his britches and had cut off from his class exclusively to tour the museum on his own, but there was something about the way he moved – eyes scanning every exit, tracking the movement of every person cutting a course through the room, and his shoulders and feet were always facing the same direction.

And it was a specific direction – a destination.

A goal that he didn't want to be observed to have.

He was being careful to make sure no one picked him out as being anything other than your average – well your bizarrely tiny, but at least not suspicious – museum goer. Jason had to admit it was a damn good show the kid was putting on, even Jason hadn't been suspicious of the little shit and he was literally stalking the damn kid to see if he was worth interrogating.

Spoiler. The kid was fucking worth it.

Jason tracked a bit closer, evaluating him with new eyes.

Tim's fingers were tapping against his thigh, but they weren't going to any beat Jason could identify. It was a count, he realized. Tim's eyes were scanning the cafeteria he'd wandered into with the kind of attentive fixation Jason hadn't seen from anyone in daylight hours since he'd gotten off the streets. Tim was making a count of something that he saw.

A slight nod and the tiniest little smirk Jason had ever seen confirmed his suspicion, and told the crime fighter that Tim was clocking the museum employees as they lumbered to and fro on their lunch breaks. And he'd found one to target specifically for something.

Tim moved to examine a museum visitor's sign but Jason could see his eyes weren't on the words he was pretending to read. He watched an employee pass him, tapped off some predetermined interval of seconds with his foot, and then spun around to follow. Jason went along directly behind them – the three of them all separated by about a dozen strides.

The employee opened a staff-only door with a code and Tim gave another tiny nod. He didn't lunge for the door once the employee was through, but his hand snapped out at it as he neared. Jason expected him to swing into the staff only hall, but Tim kept walking.

A quick look at the door showed Tim hadn't done anything major to it, but Jason had used a u-shaped magnet often enough to block a door from latching often enough to recognize it in passing. Jason had to admit that was smooth.

He went to the water fountain further down the hall as Tim swung into the john and took a long slurp as he waited for Tim to return – certain he wouldn't be waiting long.

A smirk quirked his lips as he was proven right, maybe ten seconds later Tim reappeared – still totally focused like B got mid-case – and marched straight towards the door he'd kept from locking earlier. He had a paper towel neatly folded in his hand and used it to twist the handle without leaving fingerprints and haul the door open just wide enough to slip though.

Jason elbowed his was in behind him and followed as the kid dodged right to descend a narrow, clearly disused staircase. Tim's pace had picked up significantly, his skinny little legs carrying him at a goddamn scramble through the twisty basement corridors – no longer pretending he didn't have a specific destination in mind and a route laid out to get there.

And damn, the kid knew his shit, marching confidently through corridors Jason would never have guessed existed.

The only thing Jason could say about the kid's execution of a clandestine excursion was that he'd failed to notice Jason shadowing him – and Jason had closed the gap between them by a fairly considerable amount. Jason almost wanted to sneak close enough to grab him – just to see if Tim would notice, certain that he wouldn't.

The thought made Jason grin.

And then Tim found what he was looking for: the stuff that had been sent over by WE for the special tech exhibition being set up next week. The exhibition Jason had totally forgotten about. Bruce had mentioned it like once at the Wayne gala last month, the one Tim had attended, and like there might've been a memo, but apparently Tim was way more excited about it than any sixth grader should be because he'd more or less planned and perfectly executed a museum heist to get down here.

Kid was fucking vibrating as he perused an informational binder about what looked like a chunk of the Batcomputer in a bizarre metal igloo with a whole bunch of oddly placed windows. Jason's grin froze on his face. It was a piece of the Batcomputer – or tech just like it – and the kid he suspected of knowing their secret identities was excited about it.

Suddenly, his energizer bunny buzz didn't seem quite so fricken adorable.

It seemed like confirmation.

What if the only reason little Timmy Drake was investigating this shit was that he was trying to gain insight on Batman's tech?

Jason sighed and by the time he refocused on the kid, he had to blink a few times because he'd lost the little shit. Kid had snuck away from him.

Jason was halfway to concluding that Tim had spotted him before he realized the kid was fucking climbing on the goddamned chunk of Batcomputer. Like it was a fucking playground jungle gym. And he was still fucking bouncing like a kid on Christmas morning as he peered through the windows at the wiring.

The smirk split his face again. He couldn't resist it.

Kid was fucking crazy.

"Ya know, I don't think you're supposed to be down here."

Tim yelped – fucking yelped – and twisted around to face Jason like he'd just been caught lifting a Van Gogh instead of peeking at a cool computer. Unfortunately, that made him look really guilty in a way that did not bode well for his ignorance on Batman's real name.

Jason had been caught jacking tires off the Batmobile and even he'd been cowed when the caped crusader'd caught him. Bats could be really fucking scary when he wanted to.

And if Timmy here knew ... well it made sense of his deer in the headlights reaction.

Because he was staring at Jason with some big ol' fucking BAMBI eyes like he was afraid Jason was going to drag him off to the Cave and murder him in a super sinister way where no one would ever find his body. Jason was glad all over again that he was in civvies.

"Uh, hi," Tim said eventually – after they'd stared at each other for a solid two minutes straight without actually speaking.

"Hi," Jason returned, feeling the smirk creep back across his face without permission.

He wanted to scowl. To be Robin-y enough to make the kid spill his guts about what he knew. But Jason currently counted it a goddamn victory that he wasn't on the ground laughing his ass off at the fucking baby seal he'd cornered.

Another long moment of silence passed, until it became clear that Tim wasn't going to actually say anything more.

"You're Tim Drake, aren't you? We met last month at the charity gala," Jason commented, carefully pretending he was just chatting with an acquaintance at the frickin grocery store and not having this conversation in a creepy ass museum basement. "I'm Jason."

"I remember Mr. Todd," Tim replied. It looked like his brain kind of stuttered on him and then the manners protocol on the Tiny Timmy 2.0 humanoid robot spluttered to life and he went on awkwardly, "What brings you here?"

"It's just 'Jason', kid," he countered. It was a gruff response, but he didn't snap. It didn't rub him quite as wrong when Tim said it, but Jason had never liked when someone called him 'mister' – on the streets it was always a barb – and the reflex was still ingrained.

Besides, saying that bought Jason time to think up how to answer Tim's question.

He jerked his chin at the computer Tim was crouched on and said, "That shit's WayneTech. B sent me over to make sure it's got all the right bits with it."

Tim nodded woodenly, hands hovering over the computer's casing like it might burn him – but also like he kinda wanted to dive head-first into the fire. It was a shit story, Jason knew, but Tim didn't seem too concerned by that. He clearly felt that Jason was about to arrest him, kill him, or possibly straight up eat him.

To keep himself from falling victim to his laughter, Jason shoved his hands into his pockets and dug his nails into the heels of his palms. He almost lost the battle to contain his laughter as he continued the absurdism of parody and echoed Tim, "What brings you here?"

"Field trip."

The kid was dead serious, too.

Like blank face, whole-hearted, utterly truthful – and technically, Jason supposed, it was true – completely missed the point, kind of answer. Like it flew right over Tim's head that they were having the conversation by shouting across a creepy ass museum basement because Tim was climbing on a supercomputer.

"Field trip?" Jason blurted, unable to articulate anything else.

Tim blinked, nodded.

"Alright then," Jason accepted, at a loss of what else he could possibly do.

Kid was fucking crazy, man.

He shrugged and shook his head to forcibly reorder his thoughts. He attempted to figure out a method of moving this conversation to the important-question interrogation phase. Tim was skittish, that much was clear, he needed to be set in a safe-space before he would talk – since he already seemed to think Jason was going to murder him, and the big bad Bat wasn't even here to loom menacingly over him.

Food. Food would help.

And there was a semi-public cafeteria above their heads – private enough to frickin have this conversation, but public enough to convince Tim he would survive the encounter. Probably.

"So, you got yourself stuck up there or are you gonna come have lunch with me?"

"Lunch?"

It was obviously a foreign concept to him.

"Yeah, ya know, food. You eat it," Jason snarked. He was mentally rolling through the museum cafeteria's pickings and added, "I know I could use some pizza."

Tim frowned, and stared – tipping his head to one side like a fucking bird. Like Tim was a goddamned magpie and Jason suddenly was something shiny.

The silence persisted until something twisted in Jason's gut.

"You actually stuck up there, Tim?"

A beat. Then Tim huffed a petulant no and looked so pitifully offended by Jason's assumption that the twist in his gut moved to his chest.

There was another beat of awkward quiet, and Jason began to worry Tim's adamant objection to the assumption he'd gotten stuck was nothing but pre-teen bravado. If Tim was really stuck, Jason could get him down, but it might compromise his Robin identity.

Jason was debating the point when Tim seemed to realize he was supposed to be climbing down now – like the manners protocol on the little robot had finally been replaced by the action one. He scrambled down the computer's casing like a fucking squirrel and planted his feet flat on the ground in front of Jason like he was sizing him up.

God, the kid was fucking tiny.

He was at least a head shorter than Jason, and looked like a fucking stick drowning in that ridiculous sweater, and when Jason threw his arm around the kid's shoulders he was legitimately worried about breaking the little shit – kid was skin and bones at best.

Batman's files said he was twelve, but B had been wrong on the odd occasion before and Jason couldn't quite believe he wasn't wrong now.

Jason tightened his hold slightly as he began to drag Tim towards the exit – Tim stiffened under his arm and began to wriggle. Then he dodged out of Jason's hold so quick Jason barely managed to process it as Tim lunged for the backpack he'd abandoned before his climb.

He was back at Jason's side before Jason had even dropped his arm.

Recovering a beat after the bony little asshole was already back at his side, Jason tucked Tim – who was clutching desperately at his comically oversized backpack – close with a prickle of concern still lingering.

He steered them upstairs and wrangled a large pizza from the first counter they passed. He dropped a twenty for the pie and didn't pause to collect his change – an act that would've been unimaginable to him less than a year ago – and focused on getting Tim settled in front of a plate piled with the bare minimum of slices he felt the kid should have.

Damn runt needed like five thousand calories shoved down his throat. ASAP.

Just looking at him made Jason want to inhale literally anything even remotely edible.

For his part, Tim started poking at his pizza – looking like he either thought it was poison, or like it was about to jump of the cardboard plate and eat him.

Goddamned little alien.

At least he looked a bit more comfortable with chitchatting. Though he was avoiding Jason's gaze with a monk-like dedication.

"So," Jason said slowly, trying to ease into the interrogation, "Some people are saying you've got some sort of connection to the Batman."

It was apparently the wrong thing to say – or exactly the right thing, if Jason's only goal was to get Tim to look at him – because the kid's eyes snapped up and leveled a quizzical stare that was so keen and clear and evaluative that Jason felt himself sit up straighter.

The evaluation in his eyes stuttered – like his robotic little brain glitched out on him or something – and then he ducked his head and hunched his shoulders as he half-shouted an apology: "I'msorryItouchedthequantumcomputer."

Jason's mouth hung open mid-chew like someone slapped him. Tim would probably have been offended by the sight if his eyes weren't screwed shut with his face buried in the nylon of his backpack. Baby seal, meet abused puppies and those gut-wrenching god-awful Sarah McLaughlin songs.

Actual pain twisted in Jason's chest.

"Shit, kid," Jason managed, consciously making the effort to chew and swallow without choking. "You're not in trouble."

Tim paused in poking at his pizza like it was some dangerous animal. "I'm not?"

There was a ridiculous sort of hopefulness spread blatantly across his face. Jason knew he really shouldn't be making any kind of promise like this – B was going to roast him for it if Tim turned out to know something dangerous – but Jason wasn't Bat enough to kick a puppy.

"Nah, fuck the man."

Relief flooded Tiny Tim and Jason felt himself relax.

He blinked, and a ripple of confusion fluttered over his otherwise blank expression.

"Then why are you talking to me?"

This time, Jason managed to keep his mouth from falling open, but he still felt like he'd been slapped. Jason had met enough kids on the street to know Tim meant it – he was utterly baffled as to why Jason, why anyone, would be talking to him if he wasn't in trouble.

He tried to be gentle, carefully reiterating, "'Cause I hear you know who the Batman is, ya know, under the cowl."

His carefulness seemed to pay off, because Tim – fucking finally – decided to take a bite of pizza. It was the goddamned smallest bite Jason had ever seen, but it was a bite.

"Nobody knows who Batman is," Tim said eventually.

His face was too blank, his tone too even.

"But you're a fan, right?" Jason pressed, gesturing at the dead give-away that was the kid's ridiculous sweater. "You've gotta have some theories."

Tim blinked. And carefully intoned, "I don't have any theories."

Damn, this kid was a crap liar.

He took another – frickin tiny – bite of pizza and Jason pushed, "Seriously? None?"

Tim shrugged.

"Then why's the word on the street that you've got insider know-how on ole Batsy?"

"I dunno," Tim said with another shrug.

Jason frowned. Tim's eyes flicked up and he gave a subtle flinch and Jason's obvious disapproval, but Jason couldn't wrest the expression from his face before Tim looked down again and stilled.

Tiny Timmy 2.0 was glitching again. No human could be that still – except maybe Batman, but Jason still considered B questionable on the human front.

"Who'd you hear it from?"

Tim's question seemed to startle Tim. It certainly made Jason jump a bit.

Jason shrugged and pushed out an answer, "I dunno. People. But like seriously, you don't have any fucking idea why someone would think you know Batman's real name?"

Shaking his head slowly, Tim stared at his pizza like it held the answers to the whole shit-spitting universe. Jason could almost hear the machinery whirring inside the little robot's head.

"Huh."

Jason's huff was the only reaction he had for running into a dead end. It was obvious that Tim did know something, but he was utterly baffled as to why anyone else might think so. Either it was because he was good at keeping secrets – and his poor ability to lie made that unlikely – or because he never actually talked to anyone. Timmy's lack of typical human interaction was obvious, and it made a more severe isolation than was obvious seem plausible.

The huff seemed to trigger Timmy's programming to go into overdrive as Jason fell into his own thoughts. It wasn't for a long few seconds that Jason noticed Tim's eyes doing this bizarre rapid-flicker thing.

"Tim?"

Nothing. No response. The flicker-thing didn't even stutter.

"Hey, Tim, you okay, kid?"

The twisty bit in Jason's gut flared to life again.

"When'd you start hearing that rumor?" This question definitely started Tim, but Jason only felt relief – he'd been halfway to assuming that the kid was having some sort of seizure.

"Uh, about a week ago, I guess," Jason explained. "Your name had come up a few times before that in regards to you being a fan, but it wasn't too long ago that it changed to you having special access or some shit."

Tim nodded absently. His eyes started to do that flicker-thing again, but his face didn't go totally vacant. Instead, a frown crawled across his face in slow motion and his brow began to furrow at the same glacial speed.

"Yo, Timmers," Jason said slowly, "Can you hear me?"

Tim nodded, but Jason had the distinct feeling that it wasn't in response to his question.

Then Tim was a flurry of frantic motion, lunging for his backpack and scrambling to dig something out of it. Eventually he pulled a phone to the surface and clicked it on. Whatever he saw there was not heartening and his gaze snapped up to meet Jason's as he paled – quite a feat considering how sickly-white he'd been to start with.

"We have to get out of here," Tim announced, already attempting to tumble to his feet.

Jason stumbled after him. He grabbed the remaining pizza to keep his hands full – certain that if he did what he wanted and physically held Tim still, it would not go over well. Tim was already freaked about some shit and the last thing Jason wanted to do was make it worse.

"What's wrong, Tim," Jason asked, in the soft but insistent kind of Robin voice he usually reserved for getting details out of fresh assault victims in Gotham's darkest alleys. He'd never had to use it while the sun was up before.

Tim ignored him and continued power-walking towards the museum's main exit. Jason ended up discarding the last piece of pizza in his hands. He swiped his fingers on his cargos – certain little Timmy would not appreciate pizza grease on that stupid hand-made sweater – and grabbed Tim's elbow.

The kid swung around to face him like a fucking boomerang. He was way too light to be anywhere near healthy and he almost smacked face-first into Jason's chest. His backpack buffered him and Jason caught his other elbow to stabilize him.

"Timmy, what's got you so spooked?" Jason asked. "C'mon. You can tell me. Anything. I won't rat on you, even if it's something bad. Lemme help."

Tim vibrated in his hold and Jason watched the conflict cross his face.

"I can't – it's not – You don't," Tim struggled, a desperate whine building in his voice that yanked hard at Jason's heartstrings. "We have to get out of the building."

Jason slid his hands up Tim's arms, latching onto his shoulders in a gesture of support that would've been a hug if not for the stupid backpack squeezed between them. "Why?"

Tim only vibrated harder, eyes wild.

And then the museum's windows exploded inward with a dramatic shower of glass and gunfire as more goons than Jason could count began to repel their way inside.

Tim closed his eyes and half-collapsed against Jason as he groaned, "That's why."

How Tim could possibly have known Sabini was about to launch a goddamned assault on the fucking museum was beyond Jason – though clearly, he had – but Jason's immediate priority wasn't answering questions. It was getting Tim to safety – since there wasn't really any other even quasi-logical reason Sabini's goons would be attacking a goddamned museum in broad daylight: they were definitely after Tim.

And with Jason's own certainty that Tim knew providing cause, it made an unfortunate amount of sense for how many resources Sabini had committed to this mission.

The first thing Jason did was pull Tim closer to him, securing him under his arm and obscuring the now damning logo on his sweater. The second thing he did was hit button on his watch for the emergency beacon Bruce insisted he wear at all times – in some form or other – even in civvies, even in his frickin PJs. Paranoia, maybe. But it was also hella useful.

After that, Jason began shuffling Tim towards a staff-only door – away from the exits that the panicked crowd of unlucky museum-goers currently clogged. Screams and chaos and gunshots kept the air too loud to facilitate verbal communication, but Jason used his thumb to rub soothing strokes down Tim's shoulder as he physically dragged the pre-teen along.

Unfortunately, behind that staff door was another of Sabini's goons, and Jason was herded back to the museum's main atrium as a second goon joined the first, and then a third – all three brandishing gleaming sharp stiletto blades that could slice through Timmy's tiny limbs in a heartbeat if Jason let him go long enough to try fighting them off.

Instead of fighting his way out alone, Jason just tucked Timmy closer and let them both be herded into the slowly calming crowd. The goons were explaining that they were only after one thing – Jason noted it was not a thing they named – and that all the hostages would be let go in an orderly fashion if they would just settle down and let the goons go about their business.

They were trying to pass it off as a regular robbery, Jason realized, probably pretending they were after something special in the basements like Tim himself had been. It was almost clever for a drug-lord kidnapping scheme.

The police and any capes that showed up to investigate after the fact would be working under a false impression of motive. Moving and hiding stolen merchandise would take the gang in a very different direction than harboring a hostage for interrogation. Jason didn't know how long it would take investigators to give up on the stolen merch route and figure out that not all the hostages had been released when the gang said they would be, but it definitely gave the Sabinis a good head start.

Or would've, had Jason not been here on a gut feeling.

Jason wasn't planning on letting Tim out of arm's reach until Batman himself declared the situation safely resolved. Which meant that if they tried to take Tim anywhere, Jason would be going too, and when Batman got there to investigate, he would notice Jason's absence long before he would have noticed Tim's.

Jason's resolve to keep Tim glued to his side built in intensity as the crowd of hostages thinned out around them until he had to consciously remind himself that Tim was rather breakable and could easily be crushed by Jason's vice-grip. Tim kept himself plastered to Jason's side, instinctively trusting in Jason's bulk and brawn to keep him at least slightly safer than he would've been on his own.

Eventually, they were the only two left and Sabini's goons closed in with keen interest. Sabini's second in command – Casano or something, if Jason remembered the info from B's files correctly – stepped forward, dragging a kid Jason recognized as one of Timmy's classmates. This kid was definitely a junkie, and clearly spinning on the edge of withdrawal, which made a bit more sense of how Tim's name had gotten wrapped up in all this.

"That's him," the junkie said, pointing at Tim. "That runt knows Batman."

"Who's the other one?" Casano demanded.

"I dunno him," the junkie promised.

Casano regarded the junkie like a particularly ugly lap dog he was tolerating as it drooled on his lapel. Shooing the junkie / ugly lap dog away, Casano approached Tim and Jason. He eyed the way Jason shifted to hide Tim behind him, but Jason couldn't bring himself to regret the reaction – even if it made Casano fairly certain the junkie's claim held merit.

"Don't you boys look chummy," Casano mused. "So, do you know anything about the big bad Bat or is it just il ragazzo there?"

"Kid doesn't know anything," Jason said immediately. "He's just a fan. We met on the internet. He wanted to talk to me because I met them once – Batman and Robin, I mean."

He knew he was volunteering details to a story he hadn't been asked – red flag to any practiced interrogator – But he needed to establish a baseline story out loud so Tim could stick to it too. If Jason could just buy a little more time, maybe Bats would show up and save the day before things even got hairy.

"He's lying," the junkie chimed in, voice kind of desperate. "The runt knows. Check his backpack. Loser's got a camera full of close-ups on the Bat and Bird-boy."

Jason didn't look away from Casano but he felt Tim clutch more tightly at his backpack. The movement attracted Casano's eye and he made a gesture to his goons with the petite stiletto playing lightly between his hands.

Crap.

Four goons moved in to separate Tim and Jason. Tim seemed unwilling to be parted from Jason's side, but didn't fight hard enough to get himself injured when the goons grabbed his shoulders and wrenched him away. Jason didn't play quite so nice and got a punch to the gut for his trouble – But nothing so brutal he couldn't bite back the grunt of discomfort. It was nothing he couldn't ignore enough to flash a smile when Timmy's fucking bambi eyes looked at him with painfully blatant worry.

The goons fished out Tim's camera, handling it more roughly than Tim liked if the way Tim jerked around in his captors' hold was anything to go by. The goon who ended up with it had enough tech savvy to get the complicated thing on and scroll through the gallery to show Casano – whose unimpressed face quickly gave way to surprise as he whistled.

"Wow, mio amico," Casano said approvingly with a few steps closer to Tim. "Che bello. You take these yourself?"

"Yeah," Tim declared boldly, making Jason kind of want to punch him. That urge intensified when Tim continued, "I figured out their old patrol routes, then it was just a matter of getting into place before they got there."

"Why not ask them to pose for you?"

"I didn't get that close. The camera has really good zoom," Tim explained. "I don't actually know anything about them. I've never gotten close enough with the camera to meet them or chat, and I've never been saved by them from anything."

"But you figured out their patrol routes," Casano commented.

Tim shrugged. "That was before. The most recent photo in there is from June. The last time I saw them, even without the camera, was September. I don't know anything."

Casano shrugged and slid the camera strap over his shoulder. He patted it affectionately where it fell against his hip and cooed to Tim, "You might know more than you think."

Then Casano turned to face Jason with his full attention.

"And how about you, eh, carnoso? You know anything interesting?"

Jason glared at him in silence, frantically trying to find a way to pique Casano's suspicions without giving himself too much away.

"He doesn't know anything," Tim piped up.

"I've met them," Jason blurted, confused as to why Tim suddenly seemed like he didn't want to have Jason with him when Casano took him to Sabini. "A few times."

"That was the old Robin though," Tim protested. "He's never met the new one."

"There's a new Robin?" Casano asked as Jason's stomach dropped to his shoes. Whelp, so much for hoping to keep Casano focused on him.

"Of course, there is," Tim snorted, being excessively unhelpful to himself and making that urge to deck him rear up in Jason all over again. "What? You thought he was teleporting back and forth between Gotham and San Francisco?"

Fuck. This goddamned kid was gonna get his skinny ass killed.

And he knew a helluva lot more than Jason had suspected.

"Maybe I did only meet the first one, but we talked shop," Jason pushed, trying to keep his value as a hostage on par with Tim. "I might not have ever shook hands with the new bird, but I know the Bat. And I know his toys."

"Boys, boys," Casano said, voice dripping a nauseating sweetness, as Jason and Tim shot each other hard glances with scandalized and rather pissed expressions.

"This is not a competition," Casano purred. "If you're both so invested in finding out the truth about the Bat, you're both welcome to share all."

Jason quirked a triumphant eyebrow at Tim before he realized he was doing it and Tim stared sullenly back at him – looking moderately betrayed.

"We're late to meet the boss," Casano mentioned, now speaking to his goons. "Take them both. Even if only one actually knows anything, the other seems useful as leverage."

"What? No, he doesn't know anything," Tim yelled, struggling against the holds of his guards. He glared anxiously at Jason and said, "You have to get out of here."

Jason was absolutely certain in that moment that Tim knew exactly who he was in uniform, and that Tim knew exactly how easily Jason could get himself free to make a break for it. But Jason had exactly zero fucks to give about that shit and he was not about to leave a goddamned baby seal on a melting iceberg with Sabini's fucking sharks circling in for the kill.

Casano gestured and one of his goons struck the back of Tim's head with the butt of his blade. The kid went out like a fucking light, dropped straight off the goddamned grid.

That was the first moment Jason jerked hard against the goons' grip on him since they had pealed him away from Tim to start with. It took a bit more effort from the goons to get Jason subdued than it had for Tim, but eventually Jason's vision blurred all the way to black and he lost the fight to stay conscious.

The cool feel of his watch on his wrist – silent emergency beacon still radiating its alarm – was his last link to any sense of being grounded. As long as that kept working, Batman would come get them. Eventually.

And Jason would find a way to keep the fucking baby seal alive long enough for the fucking Sarah McLaughlin songs to kick in to cue the guilt-trip inspired rescuing.


	3. Chapter 3: Pushing Boundaries

Chapter Three: Pushing Boundaries

When Tim woke, his arms and legs were bound tightly behind his back and cheek was pressed into the stiff brush of high-density polymers rising up in some sort of cheap government carpet. His first thought was that they were still in the museum, but that was quickly dismissed as SciTech's carpeting hadn't been replaced in nearly five years and even the most remote office would've borne enough wear in that time to make the carpet's fibers feel less robust.

Besides, there was something else – a sort of smell that wasn't right. Even if it wasn't a public trafficked area getting dirt and grit ground into it, five year old carpet would have a lot of dust in it that should've been musky or mildew-y with neglect. But the smell was almost chalk-y and there was a hint of something that might've been chlorinated to it. And the fibers digging into his cheek were pricklier than he thought it should be... pricklier and actively damp in a way that seemed normal, intentional – like it was designed to wick moisture.

It was enough information to confirm for Tim that he was not at SciTech, but not enough to tell him where he was.

He didn't dare open his eyes just yet – he remembered why he'd been knocked out and that an unpleasant interrogation was imminent when his captors realized he was conscious and while he might've been reckless, Timothy Jackson Drake was not stupid – so he focused on interpreting what he could draw in through his ears.

There was a quiet rushing somewhere that probably wasn't as far off at it felt – water moving at high pressure in muted pulses, like through pipes...

The Gotham Waterworks and Civil Engineering Museum was located just a few blocks over from SciTech. It would be an easy escape and an unexpected one if they'd felt pressured to leave SciTech. And it would be private.

Government buildings like museums shut down at around 5pm most days and there was a three-day weekend coming, so even if Thursday afternoon had transitioned to Friday morning while he'd been out, Friday was a federal holiday and Tim's captors could have 3 whole days in this place without the regular employees or visitors to disturb them.

The continued rush of water, the lack of a humming HVAC system, the especially plastic-y carpet, and the proximity to the original kidnapping location; Tim was 96% certain he was being held in the old Gotham Waterworks building.

Now, the question was if Jason was here too.

Tim dared to crack an eye.

The carpet was a cheery blue in color and Tim's face was pressed into it about a foot away from the Gotham Museum Association logo. If Jason was in the room, he was on the side of it that Tim had his back towards. If there were any exterior windows in the room they were also on its far side – though Tim doubted even drug-lord kidnapers could be that stupid.

He wondered how long he'd been out.

His body didn't feel too bad, uncomfortable but not battered in the way it would've if he'd been lying here for several hours already, so it seemed likely that it hadn't been long.

His head ached, but not in the way that meant a concussion. And there was a cotton taste in his mouth that made it clear he'd been knocked out by a drug instead of just a blow to the head. It made sense, any blow to his skull hard enough to drop him like that would've cause brain damage. But a blow that just shocked him while a drug was injected elsewhere while he wasn't paying attention? That would be a sound way to knock out a kidnapped prisoner you wanted coherent enough to interrogate in the near future.

Tim might've had a small body, but his heart beat was hella fast; and while he definitely didn't mainline caffeine he did drink way more than his peers and he probably had about half as much coffee in his system as blood. He'd probably burned through the sedative way faster than the goons anticipated.

Advantage: Tim.

Sorta.

He didn't want to wriggle forcefully – to test out how well he was secured – until he could be sure he was alone in the room so he started slow, carefully shifting around to lie on his other side. All told it took at least two whole minutes to flip over, and before he was even certain none of the goons were watching, Tim spotted Jason on the floor just a few feet away from him. He resisted the urge to scoot over to him, fought it especially hard as he noted the beginnings of a bruise on Jason's jaw, and carefully scanned the ceiling for security cameras. He didn't exactly expect the office to have eyes inside it, but it never hurt to be careful.

As soon as he was moderately certain that he wasn't being watched directly, Tim started to pull at the bindings on his arms. Zip ties. Rugged plastic ones. Three of them. One on each elbow, hooking them to opposite wrists, and one in the middle for extra security. They were fairly tight, but only cutting off his circulation part way. If he was stuck like this for more than an hour or two he'd be in trouble, but for now he could still feel all of his fingers.

He could work with that.

Tim set to work at scraping the ties at his elbows down his forearms by wriggling his wrists and methodically working the tension points at angles down his arms. It was slow going, the skin on his arms was being rubbed raw, and it worked up more of a sweat than even a twelve year old Tim wanted to admit came from what seemingly should have been a small effort.

At last, he got all the ties gathered at his wrists. Working with his hands behind him was awkward, mastering this skill would take way more practice than Tim wanted to consider being worth it – But he made a very specific mental note to consider practicing anyway, if he could figure out a means of securing himself into this ridiculous position, it'd be nice to have practice at getting out of it, just in case something like this ever came up again.

Eventually, he managed to stick the nose of one tie into the latch of another enough to pry the teeth away from the notches of the tongue to let it slide free. He awkwardly repeated the feat on tie number two, and then used one he'd already loosened enough to escape to jam open the final tie. His feet were only bound with one and he made quick work of prying it open.

Then he moved on to Jason.

Jason was secured in the same way, but his bindings bit hard into his skin and Tim doubted he would've been able to escape them like Tim had with nothing more than mild scraping. Jason would definitely lose significant amounts of skin if he tried.

Jason was out cold; at least Tim thought he was, until he tried to roll the vigilante onto his back and get his arms into a more comfortable position. An injury Tim couldn't see was jarred by the movement and Jason shuddered back to awareness with a groan. He jolted back to full wakefulness faster than Tim had and watched as Tim undid the zip tie around his ankles.

Jason glowered at him for a moment, clearly sorting through a good number of things he wanted to say. He massaged his wrists, piecing together how they'd been secured, and settled on asking, "How did you do that?"

"They didn't cut off the excess," Tim explained. He demonstrated the technique and added, "It's simple physics."

"You some kinda genius, Timmers?"

"Maybe," Tim replied distractedly – he'd never given much thought to being a genius or whatever and he didn't intend to give any thought to it now.

His eyes scanning to room to try to get a sense of where they were located exactly. He'd only been to the museum in the old Waterworks building once before – a fourth grade field trip that hadn't had any real special access – But he thought he could remember the layout.

"I think we're on the second floor of the old Gotham Waterworks," Tim mentioned at a whisper, going on, "We've been here less than an hour, so the sun's probably still up. If we can find an exterior window, and there should be one at the end of the hall either left or right of that door, we can figure out exactly where we are and get out of here. I haven't seen any guards pass the door yet, but I've only been awake a few minutes."

"Jesus, Tim," Jason huffed, "Breathe. I'm gonna make sure you get out of this alright."

Rather huffy himself, Tim muttered, "You're not even supposed to be here. They were only after me."

He knew he sounded petulant, but he didn't think that was enough to prompt the strange look on Jason's face. The civvie-clad Robin was staring at him in a way Tim couldn't read exactly, but he knew he wasn't keen on being subject to it and he couldn't quite push that discomfort away in time to refocus on their situation before Jason spoke up.

"About that, kid, why didn't you want me here? I can help you."

"Not enough, and not fast enough," Tim replied immediately.

He could interpret the flash of hurt that crossed Jason's expression and it made the unfamiliar roil of guilt bubble up in his gut. Tim knew the new Robin felt he was a poor substitute for the original, that he wanted so badly to do good, and Tim found he didn't like being partly responsible for making his idol feel inadequate.

Knowing that doing so would utterly compromise his ability to continue feigning ignorance when questioned by Batman and Robin about it, Tim elected to push his limits by explaining, "If we don't get out of here before those goons come back, it's going to be a lot harder to pretend I don't know anything when the person they're asking about is right in front of me. And if they figure out how close you are to everything... They're gonna hurt you, Jason."

"Better me than you, kid," Jason countered immediately, "I signed up for this shit."

"So, did I," Tim returned.

He knew that stalking the dynamic duo from a distance wasn't exactly the same as being a proactive part of the caped crusade – even before Jason muttered something to that effect – but still, Tim was out in Gotham at night consciously chasing down criminals and crime fighters.

It wasn't the same, but Tim wasn't just a random victim.

They stared at each other for a moment, a brief one because both Tim and Jason were more professional than that, but the quiet forcefully asserted the impasse between them.

Somehow, Jason's hands had migrated to Tim's shoulders.

He was giving Tim another one of those Robin looks that made traumatized victims talk calmly about what happened to them before they even realized their mouths had opened. "Tim," Jason said, soft and serious and just so Robin, "are you hurt?"

Tim shrugged awkwardly under Jason's hands on his shoulder – because holy frack Jason had big hands, no wonder his punches sent guys twice his age reeling – and said, "I'm fine. I won't even have a bruise from the knock to the head. No concussion, no strained muscles. I'm totally fine."

Tim watched Jason chew down a response – physically, chew; like the words were solid objects that needed every muscle in his jaw to work over – and asked his own, "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Jason huffed. "Just one or two bruises, nothing major."

Tim believed him. Because lying about injuries was just stupid. And as tragic – and likely somewhat over the line in terms of child abuse – as it was, a few bumps and bruises were nothing major for Robin. Jason could handle himself, even if he wasn't feeling as whole and able-bodied as Tim.

Before Tim could say anything else – accept Jason's answer, or perhaps doubt it, as the vigilante seemed to expect he might – Jason gave him a quick rundown on the gang they were facing. Tim hadn't known their names exactly, just that they were one of several gangs starting to push drugs around his school. They weren't the gang Batman and Robin had taken down a few weeks ago, they were rivals for the same area.

And Tim's classmate had jumped on board with them to secure a new dealer. Tim shared all the details on his classmate he could, but the older student had been boring and unpleasant and Tim hadn't paid him much attention over the last few months.

Tim had slightly more information on their current location and he broke it down for Jason much more confidently than he'd explained in regards to anything about his classmate.

They sat in silence for a beat, each digesting the new pieces of their collective information. It might not feel like knowing details would be helpful in their situation, but both Tim and Jason knew that understanding their situation vastly improved their odds of getting out of it no worse for wear.

Then at a mutual signal of some unconscious sort, they both began to clamber to their feet. Tim swayed as his head reacted poorly to the new orientation – the drug lingering in his system couldn't completely counteract the coffee, but it still made his limbs less wieldy than he liked. Jason didn't seem to be reacting adversely to the drug, but he definitely winced when he put weight on his left side.

Left leg, right shoulder, Tim noted; they hadn't been interrogated yet and Jason was already sporting injuries. His fault, probably, as Jason had mostly been aggressive to take the goons' attention away from Tim.

And then the door opened and their hopes for escape evaporated.

"Well, look at you boys," Casano cooed. "Up already. Now, be a few good sports and cooperate as we take you to the boss. We don't wanna have to rough you boys up any more than necessary. Play nice and you'll get to go home. You'll be back before you know it, sitting on your couches with pizza and whatever stupid video games you kids are playing these days."

Tim and Jason nodded, shooting each other a quick look.

It showed that Jason knew as well as Tim did that Casano was spouting nonsense because he thought they were just some stupid kids. Whether or not the gave anything up about the Bat, they weren't getting out of this alive unless they were rescued.

But getting hurt before the real questions started coming wouldn't help them either, staying safe enough for as long as possible beforehand meant they had better odds of lasting long enough to hold out for that rescue.

They were quiet and compliant as Casano, and a retinue of six goons, escorted them to the main floor of the old Waterworks – Tim had been right about both their location within the building and the building itself, which made him feel rather vindicated even as Casano locked his wrists in steel manacles and hoisted them above his head with a chain crank meant for lifting the thick pipe sections in and out of place for repair.

Jason was hooked up across from him, a vague platform made up of four rows of bright yellow pipe spread between them. Their hands were pulled high above their heads, but their feet remained on the floor – for now, at least.

Sabini made his personal entrance then, using the pipes as a sort of red carpet. He was new to Gotham and clearly working hard to adjust to the grandiose theatrics expected of Gotham's criminals – he wasn't doing terribly well, but Jason's smirk told Tim he'd given the baby-drug-lord an A for effort. Maybe an A minus.

"Falcone runs this town's drug connections, but even that family has to admit that they need outside help with connecting to the rest of the country," Sabini started off, giving his best shot at a traditional Gotham Villain Introduction. "If I get information on the Bat and provide those connections, Falcone will support my bid to get a footing in Gotham and I'll easily be able to sweep away the competition. I'm telling you this so you can understand that I am very motivated to get answers on the Bat... and I've been told that you two have those answers."

Neither Tim or Jason said anything, but Tim noticed Jason had stopped smirking.

Tim didn't understand it, Sabini's verbal threat didn't seem more aggressive than they'd anticipated, but Jason was definitely tense. Maybe it was something about Sabini's body language that Tim was missing – it seemed alert, keen, but overtly ready to smash their faces in, not like the thugs Tim watched them beat up on in Gotham's alleyways.

Tim dismissed it in favor of shooting Jason a horrified look when Jason shouted, "You're gonna be in for a helluva shit show when the Bat gets his hands on you, pendejo."

Sabini turned to face Jason and said, "Ah, but I have every intention of ensuring that he does not get his hands on me. What makes you think he'll ever be able to try?"

Jason clearly had another quip ready, but Tim spoke before he could. "Because Batman is the greatest detective ever. He will find you. It's just a matter of time."

Sabini whirled back to face Tim, stepping closer and twirling the cane in his hand like a baton. Like Richard Grayson over the years Tim had stalked him, watching the acrobat with his circus gear or his escrima sticks – like it was so second nature he didn't even realize he was doing it. That was the kind of body language Tim picked up on, but unfortunately, all it did was give him a possible clue about Sabini's background – the kind of clue that would need to be investigated after this situation was resolved.

It was not the kind of body language that warned him he was about to be jabbed in the gut by Casano's elbow.

Jason had jerked on his chains a second before Casano's elbow met Tim's ribs, so apparently there had been a signal, but Tim did not see it. Another thing to research and possibly practice with, on the off chance he got into this kind of scenario again.

Stalking Batman probably entailed a certain likelihood for this kind of thing.

Or rather, definitely entailed... case in point: his current involvement in this situation.

"Pick on somebody your own size, bastard," Jason shouted as Tim pulled air back into his lungs and wondered if there was a way to practice that when he was at home.

Sabini ignored Jason easily. He kept his gaze on Tim and asked, "Why is that, I wonder? What drives the Batman to hunt down his prey?"

Tim coughed – a mostly-faked action to buy time to consider the question. It seemed an odd one for a man looking to uncover Batman's identity, but Tim realized it was actually a crucial one. Sabini was building a psychological profile for his quarry, a means of isolating his target from the background noise of possibilities and nonsensical theories.

It was a good strategy, better than most for puzzling out the answer to this particular question. Tim would have to be careful.

"He does it because Gotham needs him to," Tim said as forcefully as he could manage, "Because Gotham needs someone to stand up to people like you."

"But what does the Bat need?" Sabini asked, unwilling to be distracted or provoked. "He does sign all of his work, but is it really a signature, claiming ownership, or a just warning to other criminals about the consequences of playing in shadows? The costume alone makes me think he likes the drama, the notoriety. But what do you think, little fanboy?"

Jason snorted. "Bastard definitely does it all for the glory trip," he shouted, adding, "You should see the ego on that guy."

"So, it is about the adoration," Sabini mused, finally turning around to look at Jason again. Though he didn't step away from Tim. "And I suppose that's why he has the little acolyte? Someone to follow and be wowed by his greatness?"

"That's exactly why he has Robin," Jason growled.

Tim thought Jason might be saying that just to keep Sabini's attention on him, but something about the dark flit of emotion that crossed his face made Tim worry Jason might really think that... or at least, that he was not entirely convinced that wasn't the case.

Tim knew Jason and Batman had fought recently – His camera only had shots up to June inside it, but that was because he'd already copied the nightly hauls over to his main computer, he only ever kept his favorites in the camera's gallery – And he was reasonably sure that this exact point was a sore spot still. The thought that Robin didn't seem to realize how important he was to Batman's crusade made Tim's stomach twist itself into knots.

Sabinis was still talking, rambling on into a question of how the Bat managed to find such devoted little birds to keep, but Tim was watching Jason. The undercover vigilante didn't give Tim any tells to know what he was thinking.

"That's not why he has Robin," Tim blurted, frantically trying to mentally calculate the line he shouldn't cross in terms of revealing real information. "Batman needs Robin to keep him grounded, to confront him when he makes a bad call. Robin is important."

Tim tried to convey to Jason how much he meant those words with a look, but Jason's focus was entirely fixed on boring a hole through Sabini's shoulder blades.

"And besides," Tim said, still looking more at Jason than at the shadow of Sabini drifting closer in the corner of his vision, "Batman doesn't find his Robins. They find him."

"Oh, does someone want to be a little birdie?" Sabini cooed, looping the grip of his cane around the chains that bound Tim's wrists and using it to pull Tim closer. He grabbed Tim's face and swiped a gloved thumb over his cheek. "Tell me Batman's name, and come work for me. I'll let you fight whatever other crime you want without bothering my direct business, and you can even pick the costume – pixie boots and all."

"No," Tim replied simply.

He was immediately rewarded with a hard slap across his face.

Which hurt a lot more than Tim had ever imagined it would.

"How did the Robins find the Batman?"

"They're clever, and brave, and bold," Tim told him, honest and carefully vague.

This time the hand that stuck him was a fist.

Which hurt even more than the slap, but at least that much Tim expected.

"Who is the first Robin?"

"A happy ball of sunshine," Tim said, quoting the first police report he'd read with Robin's moniker attached to a witness assessment statement by the first officer on the scene.

Another elbow to the ribs, accompanied by a punch straight to the gut.

Tim began to really regret the pizza he'd let Jason con him into eating earlier.

"He's a fucking dick, you idiot," Jason shouted, having apparently bit the guy whose hand had been covering his mouth hard enough to make the goon remove it. "He's a whiny little dick, and a fucking human puppy-dog that drools on all his toys. You never met the fucker, Timmers, trust me."

Sabini straightened from where he'd been crouched in front of Tim and straightened his sharp Italian suit.

"You should really learn to wait your turn, piccolo," Sabini growled. He gestured to Casano – still standing beside Tim – and the lieutenant moved to push a button that drew both Tim and Jason's chains taught enough to haul them to their toes. And then he nudged them slightly higher, until Tim's feet slipped entirely free of the ground and Jason's beat up sneakers were left just close enough to touch it without being able to gain any purchase.

Swinging free in a way that would definitely start to hurt his shoulders shortly, Tim thought Jason's position might be more frustrating – being that he was no less able to stand and therefore protect his shoulders, one of which Tim knew was already injured, but he was so close to being able to help himself. Tim used Sabini's distraction to swing himself slightly, getting his toes to touch the nearest of the low pipes serving as Sabini's platform. It was enough to ease the strain on his shoulders somewhat – enough to help him hold out a little longer.

Sabini was still advancing on Jason. He uses his cane to smack Jason hard, or jab him even harder in the gut, to punctuate each word as he said, "But since you seem so eager to talk, I'll let you have the honor of answering my next question: who funds the Batman's exploits?"

"Tu madre, puto," Jason spat. It was a wet, heavy sound and Tim strained to see if Jason had any blood in his teeth. Tim couldn't tell if there was any blood, and he couldn't tell if that was good or bad – if would help at all for him to be certain, either way.

As he swayed on the chains holding him up, Tim concluded that certainty – in this one isolated circumstance – would not be helpful. His hypothesis gained traction as his stomach churned while he watched Sabini beat on Jason for his snark.

"Where does the Bat get his tech from?"

"From that pressurized vault up your pinched fucking ass," Jason returned. It won him another beating, a few blows longer than the last, by Tim's count.

"How does Batman get medical treatment for his injuries?"

"He waves his magic wand, just like every other magical girl sporting a costume and frickin' animal sidekick," Jason retorted. He was clearly ready for the beating this time, tensed for it and ready to counter.

Sabini slammed his cane down on Jason's shin for the punishing kick he almost managed to land. He did it again when Jason grunted through the pain and smirked at the drug lord for the dusty footprint his dark suit was now sporting. The second time, Jason screamed.

"Stop it," Tim yelled, only afterwards realizing that he'd opened his mouth and shouted out loud. "He doesn't know anything!"

Sabini whirled back to face Tim. "Si, carino, if you say so. But I think he knows more than you believe. And look at you, all riled up, though not quite enough for me. What will it take for your pretty little face to actually come alive, hm?"

With another move that made Jason tense before it happened, Sabini struck Tim with his cane. "Your turn to try answering my questions, eh, mio dolcezza?"

Tim couldn't quite rationalize the way his chest tightened as Sabini pulled him close again with his cane wrapped around the chain. But shouts and thuds from Jason's side of the room made Tim feel slightly better about disliking the distinct proximity.

"Where is Batman's base of operations?"

"I don't know," Tim replied, doing that thing where he was technically being honest. He knew who Batman was, and he knew his base was called the Cave, and he had a good guess of where it was located, but in the most stringent definition of the term, Tim didn't know.

His voice sounded weak and whiny to his own ears, but he assumed that was at least better than sounding like a liar. His ribcage throbbed with every heartbeat, and his shoulders were starting to loudly declare their formal protest to their position, but Tim felt he could manage easily enough for a little while longer. And if he couldn't, he'd pass out – which would possibly cause issue with the rescue, but would definitely help with keeping his secrets silent.

"Oh, tesaro," Sabaini purred, "You have to do better than that."

This time, Sabini kept Tim close via the cane on the chain at his wrists. He punished Tim's non-answer by pulling a stiletto from his sleeve and using its handle to bang against the edges of his shoulder blades where his position forced them to stick out slightly just behind his armpits. Tim keened, high and pained, having never imagined something like that could hurt so much – the blow hadn't been nearly as forceful as the knocks with the cane, but it was against bone almost directly, in a place where Tim's muscles were already strained and hurting.

Sabini's blade appeared alongside Tim's cheek, the flat plane of metal cold enough to startle a shiver out of Tim. "Maybe if we bloody up your pretty face, a bit," Sabini mused, he twisted the knife in his hand until the blade's sharp edge rested on Tim's skin – pressing down just enough for him to feel it. "It would certainly be a sight, and I bet it would make your little friend there very eager to answer my questions."

Shifting so his cane was tucked under his arm and the hand previously holding it could latch onto Tim's chin, Sabini dragged the stiletto across Tim's cheek – not quite hard enough to cut him, but hard enough to let Tim know it was more than sharp enough to slice him to the bone if Sabini so much as sneezed.

As the blade trailed down Tim's jaw, Tim froze. It prodded lightly at his carotid – his jugular being internal and a mix-up of the two being common enough, and annoying enough, a mistake in most parlance that Tim's terrified brain latched onto the cold hard fact of his correctness – and Tim retreated into the back of his brain.

He was vaguely aware of Casano's hands on his waist, holding him steady as Sabini worked, but his focus was only the point of the knife as it fluttered back up to rest over his eyebrow – on a such thin layer of dermis that Tim held his breath for fear of jostling the edge.

"Where are the Batman's safe houses?"

Tim opted for silence this time, preferring to think that if he actually got cut he would like it to be intentional rather than simply because he breathed too hard in responding to a question he wasn't going to answer truthfully anyway. His brain was also sort of short circuiting in a way that made it impossible for him to calculate which lie would be least telling to someone like Sabini who worked off subject profiles more than direct information.

The slice across Tim's cheek was both expected and surprising – he knew it was coming, but the cut itself hurt far less than he'd thought it would, at least for the first few seconds. The knife was so sharp it slid through Tim's skin without any genuine effort and it wasn't until a good beat afterwards that Tim actually felt it. The absolute burning of it made him hiss and writhe as his eyes watered too fiercely for him to blink the blurriness away.

More muted thuds and vague half-shouts came from Jason's side of the room – that Tim couldn't hope to see with Sabini crowding his blurry vision so completely – and Tim tried his best to breath with shallow pants that were silent enough to avoid worrying Jason any more than absolutely necessary. Tim was fairly certain he would hate himself forever if he made Jason reckless enough with Robin-worry that he got himself truly hurt.

The leg alone was enough to bench him from patrol for a while and that was already weighing on Tim's conscious as partially his fault.

"Ah, there's a bright eyed coniglietto, eh?" Sabini purred. He stepped aside and pulled Tim closer to show him off to Jason as he asked, "What do you say, tigre? Pretty enough to spill all your darkest secrets for, huh?"

"Don't bother, those kids don't know anything."

This was a new voice – cocky, confident, and deeper than the average teenager, but still obviously young. Tim recognized the voice immediately.

Sabini and Casano both stepped back from Tim to get a better angle to look up at the owner of the voice coming from directly over Tim's head.

Tim couldn't see Richard Grayson, but he could feel the gymnast slither down the chain he was attached to and he could see the vigilante's feet spin out around him as he whipped forceful kicks at both of Tim's assailants.

The former Robin was lean and long-limbed and deadly accurate, and he sent Sabini and Casano reeling as his heels slammed hard against their jaws.

Unfurling himself from Tim's chain, the former Robin – currently dressed in the blue and black get-up he'd recently begun adopting as Nightwing – put his hands on his hips and looked between Jason and Tim with a wide grin.

"How's it hangin' boys?"

Tim was too relieved to react in any coherent way, but he heard Jason swearing again in Spanish. It was less venomous than he'd been when reaction to Sabini, but not by as wide a margin as Tim had thought it would be.

Nightwing was on him before he could fully process his observation – picking the locks on his manacles and sweeping him into a half-hold as they limped over to repeat the process on Jason. Tim's legs refused to support his weight, but Jason's outright couldn't.

Nightwing looped his long arms around both Jason and Tim's torsos and half dragged them both away from the main floor where the sounds of fighting began to pick up into an alarmingly brutal volume. That would be Batman, Tim knew.

Calm and confident, Nightwing dragged his rescuees to a side office and got them gingerly settled on the carpeting.

"What took you so long, jackass?"

With a brief and apologetic look to Tim, Nightwing explained at a whisper clearly intended mostly for Jason, "We couldn't risk other bad guys figuring out that one or both of you was suspected of knowing something about Batman. And an immediate response, a quicker than normal arrival at your exact location? It would've been like confirmation one of you was attached to the Bat somehow. Even though it's not true, it would have still put you at risk of having something like this happen again in the future."

"Why are you even here," Jason demanded, adding, "I thought you were in California."

Flashing a wary look at Tim – who was staring at him in totally unabashed awe and wasn't even embarrassed to admit it – Nightwing said, "Robin takes a vacation now and then, and I occasionally come to visit."

Jason muttered something darkly under his breath, but Nightwing ignored it.

He handed Jason a piece of tech that looked kind of like a Batman-themed yo-yo and said, "Use that to lock the door behind me and then stay quiet back here until Batman and I finish mopping up. Once the building is secure we'll get you both out of here safe and sound."

Nightwing flashed another worried look over both hostages, but before he could verbalize any concern, Jason huffed and insisted, "I got this."

Giving Jason one last hard stare, Nightwing nodded and left the room.

Jason opened to two halves of the yo-yo and twisted them until the high-density weave of metallic and Kevlar strands of the hidden military-grade strap between them was about four inches long – long enough to stretch across the door jamb so the halves of the yo-yo could be secured smoothly to the surfaces on either side. Jason tapped the Bat symbol on the center of each circular piece and they attached firmly before pulling the belt between them taught.

Nothing was getting through that door with any part of the door intact unless they had the remote deactivation button – which would mean it was either Nightwing or Batman.

Tim and Jason sat in awkward silence for a moment, long enough for Jason's persistent glaring at the Bat toy to make Tim uncomfortably aware of the tension lingering between Nightwing and Robin.

"You're my favorite Robin," Tim whispered.

Jason blinked and slowly swiveled his head to face Tim directly.

"You're my favorite Robin," Tim repeated, curling up and ducking his face into his knees to avoid feeling his idol's keen scrutiny as he went on with putting his foot in his mouth, "But you need to cut Nightwing some slack."

He played with a strand of the sweater he'd pulled over his knees and felt Jason's stare digging into his shoulder.

"I, um, I know it's not my place to say," Tim squeaked, "But he's not mad at you for being the new Robin. He's not even mad at Bruce for making you his brother. He was so happy when Bruce first told him he was going to have a new sibling."

Jason snorted. "Sparkles had a funny way of showin' it."

"It was that Bruce gave you Robin," Tim went on, trying his best to keep his momentum up, "Richard is still a circus kid, and stage names are important to them. Robin, to him, wasn't just Batman's partner – it was the whole character, the bright fun sidekick and the costume and all of it, and it was one of the last connections he had to his parents. The Flying Grasyons called him their little robin before he ever made it a vigilante mantle. He really doesn't want to hate you, but I think he's finding it really hard to stop himself."

Nothing happened for so long that Tim dared to peek up from his knees.

Jason was staring openly at him – like he was just a little crazy, but maybe also kinda right. At least he wasn't glaring anymore, at anything.

"You might be on to somethin', kid," Jason said quietly, sounding sort of ... stunned.

Tim was struck by the realization that no one had ever explained that to Jason, had sat down and dissected the friction between him and Richard and Bruce. Tim blinked at him, shocked by the sudden depth of understanding he had about three people who almost no one else on earth could even recognize beyond their symbolism.

He suddenly felt a profound responsibility to mediate this rough patch between his heroes. It definitely pushed the limits of Jason's already probably strained tolerance, but Tim pointed out, "That's why he only goes out as Nightwing when he comes back to Gotham. He's still Robin in San Francisco with the Titans, but when he comes home he's trying to give you space to be Batman's partner, even though it hurts him to do it."

Jason started at him a few heartbeats longer and Tim stared back, trying to convey how much he meant what he said – how certain he was his conclusions were correct.

"You are a very strange kid, Tim," Jason replied eventually.

It didn't feel like he meant it aggressively, but Tim still felt compelled to bury his face in his knees. He really should've kept his mouth shut. This was none of his business, not really. The Bats would've probably been able to work it out eventually, what with Bruce being the great detective and all... Tim should've just stayed out of it.

"You get beat up by a wannabe drug-lord," Jason said, pulling Tim out of his spiraling thoughts, "and the first thing you do afterwards is play doctor and psychoanalyze my fucked-up family? What the hell do you do for fun?"

Tim peeked up from his knees, more than mildly surprised that Jason hadn't torn into him about minding his own business. If Tim knew anything about the new Robin, it was that he was ruled by his emotions and most of those emotions linked back in some way to anger. If Tim's butting in had embarrassed him or poked at open wounds – which Tim couldn't imagine he hadn't – Jason should theoretically be yelling at him right now.

Tim opened his mouth, meaning to apologize, but apparently the part of his brain that did things like answer stupid, obvious questions was still in control of his tongue because instead of I'm sorry he said, "I stalk Batman and Robin. For fun, I mean."

The crooked smile Jason was sporting turned into a full blown grin as Jason shook his head. "We are gonna have to talk about that, you know. It ain't safe for a kid your age."

"You're only two years older than me," Tim pointed out.

"And look how that's already turned out," Jason countered, gesturing to their current spread of cuts and bruises. "Seriously though, how you doing, Tim? You got beat up on pretty bad, but anything feel really terrible? Broken bones or shit?"

"I should be asking you that," Tim replied with a guilty glance at Jason's mangled leg.

Jason shrugged it off. "Hurts like a bitch, but it'll be fine in a week or so," he insisted.

With a skeptical frown, Tim sighed and accepted his answer. He looked back down at the fraying strand of sweater spread across his knees. "I'm sorry you got hurt because of me."

"No sweat, kid," Jason promised immediately. "What kind of a hero would I be if I left damsels in distress to fend for themselves?"

Tim had to work very hard not to be offended by the joke, and he didn't quite keep the annoyance off his face.

His exasperated expression seemed to make Jason relax though – in a way that made Tim suddenly notice the vigilante still seemed very tense.

"Seriously though, why didn't you tell that bastard anything?"

Tim frowned, insulted in a very different and very personal way. "I would never give you up like that," Tim declared. "Never. You and Batman protect the whole city. If I can help protect you from something... it's not much, but it's something."

"It is a lot, Tim," Jason told him, grabbing onto his shoulder with that calm and earnest Robin sincerity – the one trait shared by both boys who'd held the hero's mantle. "It is. And it means a lot."

Tim kept his eyes on his knees, but he knew Jason could see his smile.

And then a thought occurred to him that wiped that smile entirely away.

If Batman knew that Tim knew what he did, Batman would probably be forced to take drastic action to ensure Tim could not be a liability like this again. And if WayneTech's pharmaceutical division delivered even half of what their R&D had said could happen for the PTSD treatments they were developing... it was uncomfortably possible that Tim might not remember any of this tomorrow.

He had seen Batman use something sort of to that effect on the hostages of a bank robbery a few years ago. They all reported sort term memory loss afterwards that meant they had no idea what they'd been doing the entire day of the robbery. If the selective memory adjustment possibilities had panned out at all, if they'd improved on the formula used at that bank robbery, Tim might not remember Batman or Robin's secret identities at all.

He would probably remember how much he liked them – they were his heroes, after all, it would take a very dramatic shift in his memory to erase that fact entirely – But it was very possible, probable even, that his memories wouldn't be nearly as fleshed out and wonderful tomorrow as they were right now...

"Hey, um, Jason?"

"Yeah?"

"Batman's not gonna like that I know," Tim started, working very hard to keep his words aligned into coherent sentences – And keep those sentences organized into something Jason could follow. Now would be a great time to have some note cards.

Tim tried to count off his bullet points on his fingers, but he didn't have a concrete list to reference to ensure it worked. "And he's gonna want to protect you and Richard so he has to make sure I'm not a liability, obviously. So whatever he does is probably gonna make it so I don't even remember, so I'm not a threat to you or to myself just because I know. So if he does that and I do forget... can you just give me Robin's autograph? Or maybe not... handwriting analysis is getting pretty advanced... so maybe like a picture or something? I just... I met Robin today... both of you... and I just ... I just wanna... remember it."

Tim knew his finish was weak – knew his whole speech was lame to start with – And he buried his face back into his knees and deeply regretted that his parents had ever taught him to speak to begin with. Clearly, he did not deserve the English language, or the gift of speech at all.

Tim was fairly certain a long moment passed in awkward silence, but he was too mortified by his own continued existence to actually clock it.

"Shit, kid, breathe for fuck's sake," Jason said eventually.

With a burst of concentrated effort, Tim pulled air into his lungs. Only after he let it back out did he realize that Jason's hand had migrated to his back – that it was the warm weight he felt moving in comforting circles there, grounding him to this reality despite his current discomfort with it.

"So, like, I didn't really follow any of that," Jason admitted. "But first of all, his name is Dick. And I dunno what mumbo jumbo voodoo magic shit you think the Bat is gonna do to you, but you got no reason to be so fucking worried about it. I'm not gonna let him do some fucking Jedi mind wipe or shit to you. Got it?"

Jason pressed slightly harder with the hand against Tim's back and repeated his query, making Tim realize he expected some sort of response.

He managed a nod.

"You're okay," Jason said – though Tim wasn't quite sure if it was a statement or a question. He nodded again, just in case.

It seemed to be the correct response, because Jason exhaled heavily – relieved.

"Okay," he said again – this time, definitely a statement.

Jason pulled his hand back and Tim instantly missed the feel of it. He wasn't able to fully process the sensation before his attention was pulled back to Jason's voice as he said, "And, uh, you can... you can, um, still have... you can still have an uh, autograph or some shit."

Tim glanced up sharply when his brain managed to process the meaning in Jason's offer – not quite daring to believe it.

"Really?"

"Yeah," Jason told him, painstakingly making the effort to avoid Tim's gaze and fastidiously examine the office carpeting. "You know, only if you want it, though."

Tim felt the smile break out across his face and his ears burned with embarrassment and excitement as he resisted the urge to tuck his head between his knees.

"Thanks, Jay," he squeaked.

Jason looked surprised at the nickname, but he smiled. Tim's smile back strengthened as he felt relief sink in, because he was utterly certain that he couldn't have managed the other syllable of Jason's name under any circumstances and he was glad Jason wasn't pissed off by it.

Jason opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but before any sound came out the device Nightwing had given him beeped as it disengaged.

Batman and Nightwing swept into the room with a wave of tension Tim almost wanted to measure in a physical shift in air pressure. There was a moment of back and forth glowering between the trio of vigilantes, and then Batman turned his attention to Tim.

"Alright, boys," he said, ostensibly addressing the both of them – But clearly looking only at Tim from beneath his cowl. "I know this has been a traumatic day for you, but there's one more scary thing you need to do: let Nightwing and I put you to sleep for a little bit and get you medical attention. Then you can both go home. Can you handle that?"

Tim sighed. He shot one last smile at Jason – felt a bright bubble of warmth swell inside his chest as he remembered, and believed in, Jason's promise – And then nodded at Batman. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't quite get his voice to work – He didn't know what he could've wanted to say anyway.

Batman nodded back and said, "Alright, close your eyes and take a deep breath."

Tim did.

And he felt the world fade away.


	4. Chapter 4: Hero Time

Chapter Four: Hero Time

Jason woke suddenly – feeling unfamiliar hands on him and a throbbing pain in his shoulder. In less than a second after he opened his eyes, Jason regained control of his body and let the awareness of the situation sink in as he scouted his position.

The suddenness with which he had come awake had startled Tim – kid froze like a deer in headlights and turned those frickin bambi eyes on Jason with obvious concern that what he was doing had caused Jason pain.

Sore, and sporting a few new bruises under his clothes, Jason did a quick assessment of himself. He was fine, and he shot Tim a smile to prove it.

Tim didn't seem to believe it, but he returned to what he was doing – getting Jason out of the restraints he'd apparently been secured by before he'd woken up. Tim had been secured too, to judge by the red skin on his forearms – rubbed raw by being worked over by hard plastic. But now they were both free.

"How'd you do that?"

Tim flashed a smile and secured a loop of zip tie around a phantom limb before he demonstrated exactly what he'd done to get the tie's teeth to slide free. "They didn't cut off the excess," Tim explained, "It's simple physics."

Simple physics. Sure. Simple physics that Batman didn't know enough about to warn Jason of how to escape. More than that, it was something to consider on patrol – they should cut the excess off the ends of the goons they tied up, though honestly most of them were knocked out so thoroughly the zip ties were hardly necessary.

"You some kind of genius, Timmers?"

"Maybe," Tim replied, distracted – his eyes scanning the room they'd been stowed in with the kind of keen attention that pulled page-long explanations out of microscopic details. "I think we're on the second floor of the old Gotham Waterworks."

Jason nodded. He didn't know how Tim had figured that out, but Jason was willing to trust his gut and let the kid's maybe-genius brain put together pieces he couldn't even see on a puzzle that would give them the advantage if solved.

Tim didn't notice Jason's nod. He was still talking, "We've been here less than an hour, so the sun's probably still up. If we can find an exterior window, and there should be one at the end of the hall either left or right of that door, we can figure out exactly where we are and get out of here. I haven't seen any guards pass the door yet, but I've only been awake a few minutes."

It was an excellent run down of their situation, Jason was legitimately impressed.

But he was distracted by how urgently the words had spilled from Tim's mouth – how it was obvious Tim hadn't taken a breath through the entire spiel. Tim didn't sound afraid, but Jason couldn't believe he would be so agitated he forgot to breathe if he wasn't afraid.

"Jesus, Tim," Jason huffed, "Breathe. I'm gonna make sure you get out of this alright."

Tim huffed back, a pout building on his face. "You're not even supposed to be here," the kid muttered, dropping his eyes to the over-bright strands of the office's cheery blue carpeting. "They were only after me."

Yeah. That. Jason remembered that. And he was not a fan.

Tim was either a masochistic idiot or... well, Jason was certain at this point that Tim knew he was Robin, so that couldn't have been it. But maybe he wasn't the right Robin. He was still pretty new to this gig, and he hadn't been able to get Tim out of the situation before it had escalated to something this fucking dangerous.

Maybe Tim wanted a real hero sticking close to him.

"About that, kid, why didn't you want me here? I can help you."

"Not enough, and not fast enough," Tim replied immediately.

So, he probably would not have pushed Dickiebird away. Great. That's just what Jason needed to be thinking about right now. Because that was obviously helpful here.

He barely caught Tim's horrified expression as he apparently realized exactly what words had just come out of his mouth. Fabulous. Now Jason had sent the baby seal on a fucking guilt-trip. He was doing just great on this little investigation turned hostage situation.

Tim didn't let him sink into his thoughts, explaining hurriedly, "If we don't get out of here before those goons come back, it's going to be a lot harder to pretend I don't know anything when the person they're asking about is right in front of me. And if they figure out how close you are to everything... They're gonna hurt you, Jason."

Oh.

Oh.

And in the back of his newly-frozen mind, Jason vaguely realized that Tim had used his name. He'd called him 'Mr. Todd' once when Jason had first confronted him in the SciTech basement, but he hadn't directly addressed him since then – and he'd never called him 'Jason'.

Somehow, that fact made Jason fully believe that Tim meant his explanation.

That it wasn't that Tim didn't trust Jason to save him – that it wasn't that he'd have preferred Dick to be there with him – but that Tim didn't want to give up Jason's secret, didn't trust himself not to when the questions started and Jason was right there to accidently expose.

"Better me than you, kid," Jason countered, "I signed up for this shit."

"So, did I," Tim returned firmly, crossing his arms.

God, this kid was an idiot. Baby seals did not sign up to be possibly-tortured by drug-lords. That was just wrong. Even if they thought they knew what they were doing.

But Tim wasn't going to back down and Jason knew better than to fight him on it, he needed to focus on getting the goddamn cinnamon roll out of this fucking place.

He put his hand on Tim's shoulder, completely ignoring how bony and thin – and fucking impossibly tiny, probably malnourished – that shoulder was as he asked carefully, "Tim, are you hurt?"

Tim had gotten himself out of his restraints, but since moving to get Jason free, Tim hadn't indicated any thought to get to his feet – like he had simply accepted that he couldn't manage the motion.

With a shrug like he hadn't actually thought about it, Tim said, "I'm fine. I won't even have a bruise from the knock to the head. No concussion, no strained muscles. I'm totally fine."

Jason squinted at him, but believed the assessment.

In so far as he believed any baby seal could be fine in a situation like this.

Fucking idiot bambi robot.

Tim didn't let him stew for more than a few seconds. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Jason returned. "Just one or two bruises, nothing major."

A worried beat passed before Tim nodded, but once he did it seemed he wholly accepted Jason's self-assessment. Which was helpful because Jason was lying, but only a bit. He wasn't hurt, not significantly – he'd hidden worse from Batman before and gone patrolling with it. But he definitely was not fine.

After that Jason gave Tim a rundown of their situation, identifying the exact gang they were dealing with and outlining how this ridiculous situation had come around to begin with.

Tim managed to fill in some of the blanks in Jason's understanding, confirming his guesses about the classmate's involvement and the how's and why's behind it all.

It didn't take long for them to refocus on escaping.

Jason and Tim clambered to their feet, each carefully watching the other. Tim seemed like he was actually unharmed, and he didn't seem too worried by any tells he caught in Jason.

And then the door opened and their hopes for escape evaporated.

"Well, look at you boys," Casano cooed. "Up already. Now, be a few good sports and cooperate as we take you to the boss. We don't wanna have to rough you boys up any more than necessary. Play nice and you'll get to go home. You'll be back before you know it, sitting on your couches with pizza and whatever stupid video games you kids are playing these days."

Tim and Jason nodded, shooting each other a quick look.

It showed Jason that Tim fully understood that Casano was spouting bullshit because he thought they were just some stupid kids. Whether or not they gave anything up about the Bat, they weren't getting out of this alive unless they were rescued.

But getting hurt before the real questions started coming wouldn't help them either, staying safe enough for as long as possible beforehand meant they had better odds of lasting long enough to hold out for that rescue.

They were quiet and compliant as Casano, and a retinue of six goons, escorted them to the main floor of the old Waterworks – Tim had been right about both their location within the building and the building itself, which made a clearly vindicated smile flash across his face. It made Jason's gut churn with worry for how his lack of sanity might get him killed, but none of the goons seemed to notice as they locked both kids in manacles and attached their hands to chains that raised their hands above their heads.

For the moment, their feet stayed on the floor, but Jason knew that probably wouldn't last. He couldn't keep his thoughts from wandering towards asking where the fuck the Bat was.

They needed to get out of here.

He was starting to have to fight the urge to check his watch – to make sure that emergency beacon was still doing its thing – when Sabini made his personal entrance. He sauntered into the room, using the low platform of pipes set between Tim and Jason as a sort of red carpet. He was new to Gotham and clearly working hard to adjust to the grandiose theatrics expected of Gotham's criminals – he wasn't doing terribly well, but Jason was willing to give him some credit for the attempt. Gotham was a stage built for Greek tragedy, and Sabini might've – on a generous assessment – been qualified to perform dinner theater on an Aegean weekend cruise, but still he was trying. Jason gave him an A for the effort.

Well, A minus. He was just wearing an Italian suit – a nice one, expensive – and the lack of a signature costume had to cost him a few points on the presentation front.

He did give the villain monologue a good go, though it lacked the grandiose reasoning that turned a whiny asshole into a force of villainy.

"Falcone runs this town's drug connections, but even that family has to admit that they need outside help with connecting to the rest of the country," Sabini started off. "If I get information on the Bat and provide those connections, Falcone will support my bid to get a footing in Gotham and I'll easily be able to sweep away the competition. I'm telling you this so you can understand that I am very motivated to get answers on the Bat... and I've been told that you two have those answers."

It was a bit dry as villain intros went, overly practical – reasonable, as far as villain business models could go. But Jason's smirk had slid from his face as the lackluster speech went forward – for reasons entirely unrelated to Sabini's words.

The drug-lord was distracted, his attention fixated on Tim in a way Jason had seen in one too many creepers before to not recognize now. Great. Not only were they going to be violently questioned by a psychopath, that psychopath just had to be a pervert too.

Yeah, it's not like the baby seal over there was basically the illustration in the dictionary next to the word 'pedo-bait' or anything. Shit, shit, shit, shit, this was about to go bad.

Falling back on the vitriol of his little hometown corner of Crime Alley, Jason shouted, "You're gonna be in for a helluva shit show when the Bat gets his hands on you, pendejo."

Sabini turned to face Jason and said, "Ah, but I have every intention of ensuring that he does not get his hands on me. What makes you think he'll ever be able to try?"

Jason had another quip ready, but Tim – because, obviously, bambi had exactly zero self-preservation instincts – spoke before he could. "Because Batman is the greatest detective ever. He will find you. It's just a matter of time."

Sabini whirled back to face Tim, stepping closer and twirling the cane in his hand like a baton. Jason couldn't see his face, but even from behind he could tell the fucking dog was practically salivating as he advanced on Tim's defiant little frame.

And then Sabini tipped his head to Casano – still standing beside Tim, because clearly both of those fuckers were fricken creepers – and Jason instinctively pulled hard against his bindings like he could escape them and get to Tim before they hurt him.

Casano's elbow slammed into Tim's ribs and the kid gave a pained yelp like he hadn't been expecting it at all – like fucking physics had betrayed him or some shit.

Fuck, he was such a useless Robin.

"Pick on somebody your own size, bastard," Jason shouted as Tim audibly wheezed.

Sabini ignored Jason. He kept his gaze on Tim and asked, "Why is that, I wonder? What drives the Batman to hunt down his prey?"

Tim coughed pitifully, and Jason's heart clenched.

Casano, Sabini, anyone else he could get his hands on in the next few weeks... none of them were going to face the new year with any teeth left in their fucking skulls.

"He does it because Gotham needs him to," Tim said, sounding reedy and frail, but confident in a way that eased the screaming ball of fury clenched inside Jason's chest. "Because Gotham needs someone to stand up to people like you."

"But what does the Bat need?" Sabini asked, unwilling to be distracted or provoked – standing just so close to Tim, and at just the right angle to look down on him in a disgusting pantomime of other vile activities. "He does sign all of his work, but is it really a signature, claiming ownership, or a just warning to other criminals about the consequences of playing in shadows? The costume alone makes me think he likes the drama, the notoriety. But what do you think, little fanboy?"

Jason snorted. "Bastard definitely does it all for the glory trip," he shouted, sinking all the vitriol from Crime Alley into it. He went on with a flare of bitterness towards the Bat, and his own building fury at Sabini's extra dash of villainy, fueling the venomous twist behind his words, "You should see the ego on that guy."

"So, it is about the adoration," Sabini mused, finally turning around to look at Jason again. Though he didn't step away from Tim, it still made Jason feel better to know Sabini's immediate attention, at least, was on him. "And I suppose that's why he has the little acolyte? Someone to follow and be wowed by his greatness?"

"That's exactly why he has Robin," Jason growled, resonating uncomfortably with the thought. He didn't think Batman would abandon even a sub-par Robin to a slimy bastard like Sabini, but B should definitely be here by now. And Tim fucking needed him to get here soon.

If Bruce was fucking ignoring Jason's emergency beacon to teach him some sort of fucking lesson about following orders or shit, Jason was going to jack way more than just the tires off the Batmobile – and this time he would fucking get away with it.

"That's not why he has Robin," Tim blurted suddenly, pulling both Jason and Sabini's attention straight back to him. He was staring straight at Jason – looking just so fucking earnest and worried. "Batman needs Robin to keep him grounded, to confront him when he makes a bad call. Robin is important."

The statement made something hard unclench inside Jason's chest, but that just let the fury flow through him quicker as Sabini sidled even closer to his tiny captive. If Jason had a single cell of super powers in him Sabini would have been vaporized by the power of his glare alone. As it was, Sabini was left unharmed and able to position himself mere inches away from the fucking oblivious baby seal.

Tim was still staring at Jason – the vigilante could feel it on him as Tim opened his stupid mouth again to say, "And besides, Batman doesn't find his Robins. They find him."

Well, Jason had to admit that was actually kinda true.

A hand from Unnamed Goon Number 4 covered his mouth in the brief moment of stillness that processing Tim's comment had generated in Jason. The goon was strong and much bigger than Jason – he barely reacted to Jason's squirming efforts to escape his hold.

Simultaneously, Sabini cooed, "Oh, does someone want to be a little birdie?"

He hooked the handle of his cane around Tim's chain and used it to pull his victim closer. Jason couldn't see what Sabini's other hand was doing, but what he could see of Tim's suddenly stiff figure did not bode well for Sabini's ability to eat solid foods in the near future.

Not if Jason had any say in it.

"Tell me Batman's name, and come work for me," Sabini offered with a disgusting drip of saccharine coddling. "I'll let you fight whatever other crime you want without bothering my direct business, and you can even pick the costume – pixie boots and all."

"No," Tim replied simply.

Jason didn't know whether to be proud or pissed at the stupid little squirt – and he wasn't given time to decide as the sound of a solid slap echoed through his bones.

"How did the Robins find the Batman?"

"They're clever, and brave, and bold," Tim told him, honest and carefully vague.

This time the hand that stuck him was a fist.

"Who is the first Robin?"

"A happy ball of sunshine," Tim said, and Jason was reasonably sure it was a quote from a police report – he'd dug up everything he could on Dick when he'd first started with this gig, trying to figure out what it meant to be a good Robin.

Hot damn, was he doing poorly at it.

Another elbow to Tim's ribs from Casano and Jason writhed against his captor, finally gaining a bit of purchase with his teeth and clamping down as hard as he was able on the stupid goon's calloused, fleshy fingers. It was enough to make the goon let go, with that hand at least.

"He's a fucking dick, you idiot," Jason shouted, sorely wishing the stupid fuck was here because surely the frickin Golden Boy would know how to get Sabini to stop. "He's a whiny little dick, and a fucking human puppy-dog that drools on all his toys. You never met the fucker, Timmers, trust me."

But at least he wasn't useless.

"You should really learn to wait your turn, piccolo," Sabini growled. He gestured to Casano – still standing beside Tim – and the lieutenant moved to push a button that drew both Tim and Jason's chains taught enough to haul them to their toes. And then he nudged them slightly higher, until Tim's feet slipped entirely free of the ground and Jason's beat up sneakers were left just close enough to touch it without being able to gain any purchase.

The relief that Sabini wasn't still within arm's reach of touching Tim overshadowed any concern for himself Jason felt as Sabini advanced on him. Now, if only Tim would keep his stupid little mouth shut, Jason could handle this.

Sabini used his cane to beat on Jason, punctuating each and every word as he said, "But since you seem so eager to talk, I'll let you have the honor of answering my next question: who funds the Batman's exploits?"

"Tu madre, puto," Jason spat, aiming a gob of bloody saliva at Sabini's shoes.

Sabini didn't take kindly to it and showed his displeasure with another beating.

"Where does the Bat get his tech from?"

"From that pressurized vault up your pinched fucking ass," Jason returned. It won him yet another beating. But it was making Sabini pissed enough to continue in on Jason instead of allowing him to remember how much more compliant Tim had been.

"How does Batman get medical treatment for his injuries?"

"He waves his magic wand, just like every other magical girl sporting a costume and a fricking animal sidekick," Jason retorted.

He was ready for the beating this time, tensed for it and ready to counter. He was a fucking vigilante, after all, and it was not in his nature to take a beating without doling one out of his own. Especially against a bastard like Sabini.

Jason didn't quite land his kick, but he did manage to get a dusty footprint to settle on the formerly pristine black fabric of Sabini's suit.

Predictably, Sabini took to violent punishment in reaction to Jason's fired-up temerity.

The first straight blow of Sabini's cane to his shin made Jason's vision fill with stars, but he managed to keep his jaw clenched and voice quiet. The second blow, aimed with impressive accuracy to hit the exact same spot, made Jason scream involuntarily.

That was a fracture in the bone, and not a small one.

"Stop it!" Tim shouted, tiny voice sounding achingly desperate. There was a whine in his lungs that Jason didn't want to think was pain as Tim added, "He doesn't know anything."

Sabini whirled back to face Tim – the stupid fucking little moron. "Si, carino, if you say so. But I think he knows more than you believe. And look at you, all riled up, though not quite enough for me. What will it take for your pretty little face to actually come alive, hm?"

Jason was definitely going to puke if the shit-faced fucking Batman didn't show up to save the day in the next minute or two and he jerked hard against his chains as Sabini pulled back to strike his helpless quarry with his cane.

"Your turn to try answering my questions, eh, mio dolcezza?"

Oh yeah, Jason was gonna be sick.

Sabini pulled him close to him an arm wrapped around his waist for a moment, the cane wrapped back around that stupid chain, and then a hand gripping tight to Tim's chin.

Frightened little bambi eyes found Jason's and oh, fuck, Jason was about to lose it.

Unnamed Goon Number 4 beat into Jason pretty well – enough to subdue him again as Jason fought down another scream at the pain of his injuries. That would not help Tim's situation at all, and it wouldn't do to make things worse for him by making him worry about Jason. The failed Robin could take the punishment – he just needed to get Tim free.

Somehow.

"Where is Batman's base of operations?"

"I don't know," Tim replied, a filter of robotic blankness settled over his expression – though somehow it didn't look as clear that he was lying as some of the moments when he'd been lying earlier to Jason.

His voice sounded weak, exhausted, but Jason felt hopeful that it didn't sound broken.

"Oh, tesaro," Sabaini purred, "You have to do better than that."

This time, Sabini remained crouched within mere inches of Tim and a knife appeared in his hand that he took great pleasure in running over Tim's frightened face. Jason couldn't see much of the expression, but he saw more than enough to see red.

Especially when Sabini used the butt of his knife to jab at Tim's shoulder blades – which if Jason's were already strained and hurting, must have already been on fire in Tim's case.

Sabini's blade appeared on Tim's cheek again.

"Maybe if we bloody up your pretty face, a bit," Sabini mused, he twisted the knife in his hand until Tim's squirming stilled like he was too afraid to even breathe. "It would certainly be a sight, and I bet it would make your little friend there very eager to answer my questions."

He paused briefly, admiring his work or building the anticipation or something Jason wanted to hit him for and the he got back to asking questions.

"Where are the Batman's safe houses?"

Tim opted for silence this time, and Jason found he couldn't breathe as his chest constricted with the sudden force of his concern.

The slice across his cheek made Jason writhe again, but Unnamed Goon Number 4 was ready and he jabbed at Jason's injuries with enough force to render his resistance impotent.

Jason's vision was going rather blurry, but his hearing still worked fine and his gut roiled as Sabini crooned, "Ah, there's a bright eyed coniglietto, eh?"

The drug-lord stepped aside to fucking show Jason the fruits of his labor and Jason felt rage course through him like it never had before. He'd heard about how adrenaline and fury could make the pain of dire injuries disappear, but he'd never actually believed that until now.

With such keen hatred coursing through his veins, Jason legitimately considered breaking every bone in his hands in order to get free and throttle the bastard still touching Tim's lower back. Sabini gave Jason a satisfied smirk as he said, "What do you say, tigre? Pretty enough to spill all your darkest secrets for, huh?"

Fuck that bastard needed to be hit. Repeatedly. In the face, with a fucking hammer.

And just as Jason was about to resign to never using his thumbs again, a voice from above filtered in that made relief sink into Jason's bones – even as fury and frustration flooded into him as well.

"Don't bother, those kids don't know anything."

Fucking cocky late-ass bastard, that's what kind of hero Dick was.

Sabini and Casano both stepped back from Tim to get a better angle to look up at the owner of the voice coming from directly over Tim's head. Dick slithered down the chain attached to Tim's wrists and quickly dispatched the drug-lord and his primary goon.

Unfurling himself from Tim's chain, the former Robin – currently dressed in the blue and black get-up he'd recently begun adopting as Nightwing – put his hands on his hips and looked between Jason and Tim with a wide grin.

"How's it hangin' boys?"

God that circus boy was damn insufferable. Jason definitely owed him at least a dozen kicks to his fucking perfect teeth.

"It's about damn time you got here, puto culo," Jason growled under his breath as Dick set to work with picking the locks on Tim's manacles.

The fucking kid collapsed against Nightwing's side as soon as his hands were free – his legs didn't even pretend to try supporting his weight.

When Nightwing got him down and tucked Jason against his side, the new Robin demanded, "What took you so long, jackass?"

Nightwing hauled his young rescuees into a quiet side office, painfully similar to the one where he and Tim had first woken up.

With a wary and apologetic look to Tim – that wasn't nearly guilt-ridden enough for Jason's tastes – Dick explained, "We couldn't risk other bad guys figuring out that one or both of you was suspected of knowing something about Batman. And an immediate response, a quicker than normal arrival at your exact location? It would've been like confirmation one of you was attached to the Bat somehow. Even though it's not true, it would have still put you at risk of having something like this happen again in the future."

Okay. That was almost a good reason.

Tim definitely couldn't be subjected to this shit ever again – that much he agreed with.

"Why are you even here," Jason grumbled, adding, "I thought you were in California."

With another wary look at Tim – who was staring back with unabashed awe that totally wasn't making Jason at all jealous or bitter – Dick replied, "Robin takes a vacation now and then, and I occasionally come to visit."

Under his breath, Jason scoffed, "Only when you're fucking forced to."

Dick ignored him.

Instead, he sighed and pulled out a piece of equipment he knew Jason had been trained to use. "Use that to lock the door behind me and then stay quiet back here until Batsy and I finish mopping up. Once the building is secure we'll get you both out of here, safe and sound."

Hesitating to leave like they were both frightened little bunnies, Nightwing crouched beside them and stared – fucking bleeding heart who'd never felt the sting of pity.

"I got this," Jason growled defensively.

The last thing he needed right now was the poster child of Boy Wonder perfection going all doe-eyed with pity for his second-rate replacement's failure to live up to the reputation.

Dick shot one last look at Jason, one he felt bore through his chest with a warning that he'd better be able to handle this part – since he'd clearly botched the rest of it.

Once Dick had left, Jason set the lock in place, letting the Bat's tech do what it did to seal them in securely and relaxing into the safety of it. Nothing was getting through that door with any part of the door intact unless they had the remote deactivation button – which would mean it was either Nightwing or Batman.

Jason glared at the Bat symbol on the tech, wondering exactly how fucked he was going to be when Batman figured out exactly how badly he'd screwed up. Jason wasn't sure he could take getting reamed by the Bat in front of the Golden Boy.

"You're my favorite Robin."

Tim's whisper surprised Jason. He blinked and turned slowly to look at Tim, certain he'd just imagined the kid piping up.

Tim curled up like Jason's gaze alone could make him shrivel up into oblivion as he cleared his throat and repeated, slightly louder and steadier, "You're my favorite Robin."

He spread his sweater over his knees like it could hold him together and protect him from the wrath he thought was imminent from Jason as he added, "But you need to cut Nightwing some slack."

Jason's confusion curled away into a flatly insulted frustration. Of course. Even the kid recognized that Jason wasn't good enough to be a hero. Of course, Tim was on Goldie's side.

"I, um, I know it's not my place to say," Tim squeaked, "But he's not mad at you for being the new Robin. He's not even mad at Bruce for making you his brother. He was so happy when Bruce first told him he was going to have a new sibling."

Jason snorted. "Sparkles had a funny way of showin' it."

Jason hadn't really wanted a brother, or a father for that matter, but Bruce had made it sound so tempting when he'd first laid it all out... See how fucking well that panned out.

"It was that Bruce gave you Robin," Tim went on, jarring Jason back to the moment. Tim was clearly struggling with getting the words out, but he was just as clearly determined to have his say be heard. "Richard is still a circus kid, at heart, and stage names are important to them. Robin, to him, wasn't just Batman's partner – it was the whole character, the bright fun sidekick and the costume and all of it, and it was one of the last connections he had to his parents. The Flying Grasyons called him their little robin before he ever made it a vigilante mantle. He really doesn't want to hate you, but I think he's finding it really hard to stop himself."

Jason's brain stuttered and stopped as Tim's words filtered in.

None of that had ever occurred to him – none of that had ever been explained to him. He didn't know how Tim could possibly know any of that, but Jason had consciously stopped asking questions about how Tim knew things approximately three and a half hours ago.

A bit shell-shocked from the implications of the revelation, Jason watched Tim huddle in terror for the anger he'd assumed was coming – that was something Jason would have to remember to talk to him about later – and he watched as it finally occurred to the kid that no rain of vitriol was coming.

Tim peeked up from his knees with a tentative caution.

Jason chuckled when he caught Tim's confused gaze and said slowly, "You might be on to somethin', kid."

The flicker-thing that apparently meant Tim was thinking very hard about something very complicated happened again, and Jason decided to just roll with it. He stayed silent as Tim's little robot brain did its thing.

And he listened when Tim started talking.

"That's why he only goes out as Nightwing when he comes back to Gotham," Tim pointed out, continuing to connect dots Jason hadn't realized were even remotely related. "He's still Robin in San Francisco with the Titans, but when he comes home he's trying to give you space to be Batman's partner, even though it hurts him to do it."

Tim stared at Jason like he could somehow erase every bad vibe between him and Dick by sheer willpower alone.

"You are a very strange kid, Tim," Jason replied eventually, a crooked, affectionate smile pealing itself across his face.

It made Tim bury his face back into his knees – embarrassed to the point of pain in a way Jason could objectively define as way too fucking adorable to be reasonable.

Jason chuckled – a rare sound that was low and warm and felt startlingly good – and said, "You get beat up by a wannabe drug-lord, and the first thing you do afterwards is play doctor and psychoanalyze my fucked-up family? What the hell do you do for fun?"

Looking up from his knees again, still wearing that same cautious confusion, Tim blinked at him – like he didn't understand the questions, like he didn't understand that the questions were rhetorical.

He opened his mouth and closed it a few times before any sound actually came out.

"I stalk Batman and Robin. For fun, I mean."

The crooked smile Jason was sporting turned into a full blown grin as Jason shook his head. "We are gonna have to talk about that, you know. It ain't safe for a kid your age."

And damn straight did Jason mean his words.

Baby seals had no business sticking themselves in fucking shark tanks.

Not on his watch, at least.

Tim had other plans, however, and no intentions to stop pursuing his hobby as he made clear by pointing out, "You're only two years older than me."

"And look how that's already turned out," Jason countered, gesturing to their current spread of cuts and bruises. "Seriously though, how you doing, Tim? You got beat up on pretty bad, but anything feel really terrible? Broken bones or shit?"

"I should be asking you that," Tim replied with a guilty glance at Jason's mangled leg.

Jason shrugged it off. "Hurts like a bitch, but it'll be fine in a week or so," he insisted.

He'd thought the last thing he needed was a comparison to Goldie by an angry Bruce, but apparently, he'd underestimated the impact of a guilt-ridden Timothy Drake blaming himself for Jason's own stupid injuries.

Tim shot him a skeptical look, but he sighed and seemingly accepted the answer. But then he looked back down at his knees and resumed playing with a fraying strand of his sweater as he mumbled pitifully, "I'm sorry you got hurt because of me."

God damn watching Tim be like that fucking hurt.

"No sweat, kid," Jason promised immediately. "What kind of a hero would I be if I left damsels in distress to fend for themselves?"

The insult hit its mark hard enough to jar that pained expression off of Tim's bruised face, replacing it with a much more bearable look of exasperation.

There was still something bothering Jason, though – something too big to ignore forever, especially with Batman and Nightwing likely on their way back.

"Seriously though, why didn't you tell that bastard anything?"

Tim had taken quite a beating, and he hadn't said a word about Batman's secrets – which, obviously he knew better than the Bat family itself. Jason wasn't even entirely convinced that Alfred knew anything more about them all – and Alfred was fucking magic.

In answer to Jason's concern Tim frowned more pointedly, like Jason's current question was far more insulting to him than the direct jibe he'd levied earlier.

"I would never give you up like that," Tim declared. "Never. You and Batman protect the whole city. If I can help protect you from something... it's not much, but it's something."

"It is a lot, Tim," Jason told him, grabbing onto his shoulder in an attempt to convey that Jason wholly believed him. "It is. And it means a lot."

Tim kept his eyes on his knees, but Jason could see his smile.

And then a thought occurred inside his little alien robot brain that somehow managed to wipe that heartwarming smile entirely away.

The stupid fucking flicker thing happened again, and Jason was left waiting for the goddamn robot's processers to get to the fucking point as Tim began to frickin' vibrate beneath his hand. He hauled himself a few inches closer and curled his arm awkwardly around Tim's shoulders – trying his best to rub soothing circles into his back at the strange angle.

"Hey, um, Jason?"

"Yeah?"

"Batman's not gonna like that I know," Tim started, visibly working very hard to make the whole communication thing actually happen. He toyed roughly with his fingers like they had mortally offended him as he went on, "And he's gonna want to protect you and Richard so he has to make sure I'm not a liability, obviously. So whatever he does is probably gonna make it so I don't even remember, so I'm not a threat to you or to myself just because I know. So if he does that and I do forget... can you just give me Robin's autograph? Or maybe not... handwriting analysis is getting pretty advanced... so maybe like a picture or something? I just... I met Robin today... both of you... and I just ... I just wanna... remember it."

Shit.

This kid was gonna give Jason a fucking heart attack even if he never again got himself into something this stupidly dangerous. Which the little fucker probably would end up doing.

Tim buried his face again, so obviously mortified that his ears went bright red and the color could be seen creeping all the way down his neck before the skin disappeared beneath his sweater. Baby seal, meet bruised little hedgehog.

... who was apparently convinced that oxygen was toxic and would burn him because the fucking kid wasn't breathing. Jason could feel it through the hand he still had between Tim's shoulder blades. "Shit, kid," Jason managed, miraculously not choking on his own air or the words that needed it, "breathe for fuck's sake."

Jason started rubbing circles again and between the direct order and the comforting motion, Tim managed to convince his lungs to function.

"So, like, I didn't really follow any of that," Jason stated. "But first of all, his name is Dick. And I dunno what mumbo jumbo voodoo magic shit you think the Bat is gonna do to you, but you got no reason to be so fucking worried about it. I'm not gonna let him do some fucking Jedi mind wipe or shit to you. Got it?"

Tim kept breathing, but he didn't respond.

Pressing down slightly harder on his hand to remind Tim that he was there and solid, Jason repeated, "Got it?"

A nod – stilted, but conscious and intentional.

"You're okay?"

He didn't look okay.

He looked like a wet kitten dropped on the roof of a moving train.

In space.

With alien laser guns trained on his tail.

But he gave another nod and it was enough to make the worry in Jason's lungs ease.

"Okay," he breathed, mostly to assure himself.

With the panic part dealt with, Jason felt compelled to address the last point in Tim's little terrified ramble. Embarrassment of his own reared up as he tried to soothe Tim's final worry by saying, "And, uh, you can... you can, um, still have... you can still have an uh, autograph or some shit."

Tim's head shot up from his knees – hopeful little magpie eyes staring through him like those fucking space lasers Jason had thought were trained on kitten-Tim's tail.

"Really?"

God, this kid was a wreck.

It was like he'd never imagined Jason might not be a complete asshole about the whole Robin thing, or about Tim knowing about the Robin thing.

Jason was reminded with a painful stab of guilt about the question Tim had asked back at SciTech: then why are you talking to me? Like the kid had never had any friends, never thought that having friends to chat with for no reason was even possible for him.

"Yeah," Jason said, using the hand that had been on Tim's back to pick at the carpeting as he fought the worry that Tim might've only said it 'cause he was panicking. And trying very hard not to wonder if he'd rather have an autograph from Dick than from Jason. "You know, only if you want it, though."

A beat of silence passed.

And then Tim squealed – clearly the gears in his little robot neck resisting his refusal to bury his head back between his knees as he fucking beamed at Jason.

Like he'd bought the boy a puppy.

"Thanks, Jay," he squeaked eventually, startling Jason at the warmth and trust and easy familiarity contained by the simple, nearly inaudible syllables.

His mouth dropped open like he wanted to say something – though what exactly, Jason had no fucking clue – but before his silence could destroy his dignity, the Bat device on the door beeped and fell away.

Batman and Nightwing swept into the room with a wave of tension that made Jason squirm with shame and guilt. There was a silent moment of glowering as he fought to maintain the anger he'd harbored at Bruce for not believing in his hunch, for not trusting his expertise when it came to run of the mill street thugs, and as he tried not to shrink under what he knew was a well-earned chastisement for getting wrapped up in this mess.

It couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds, but exhaustion like he'd run a marathon pooled in his bones when Batman finally looked away.

"Alright, boys," he said, ostensibly addressing both hostages – But clearly looking only at Tim from beneath his cowl. "I know this has been a traumatic day for you, but there's one more scary thing you need to do: let Nightwing and I put you to sleep for a little bit and get you medical attention. Then you can both go home. Can you handle that?"

At least Batman waited for Tim to consciously nod to spray him in the face with a spritz of knockout gas – Jason had very firm views on consent, and they were especially pointed at the moment with what else Sabini had wanted from Tim – but within seconds, Tim's unconscious form was slumped against Batman's armor-plated chest, wrapped up securely in his cape.

"You didn't have to do that," Jason growled as Batman turned his back to let Nightwing collect his brother without a word. "He would've behaved himself."

Collecting his tech and then sweeping and arm around Jason's middle as he ducked under one of Jason's own arms, Dick hauled Jason to his feet and said softly, "He just wants to get you both back to the Cave for assessment as quickly as possible – no detouring to throw him off in case he's one of those people with the ability to accurately mental map."

Fine. That was an almost adequate reason.

Except Jason was pretty damn sure Tim didn't need a mental map to figure out the Cave's location. Hell, he probably just knew it.

But Jason sure as hell wasn't going to tell Bruce that.

He might not be a very good Robin, but could do a little something heroic. And Jason knew that Batman would be pissed if he knew Tim knew so much about them. He wasn't sure what special knowledge of the Bat's secrets made Tim so afraid that he was gonna be mind wiped like a frickin' Roswell witness, but he trusted that if Tim thought it was possible, then it probably was. And if B was ever gonna use that shit on someone, it'd be Tim.

And Jason was not going to let that happen.

He'd promised.

And Jason kept his promises.

The Batmobile was more than roomy enough for Dick, Jason, and Tim to share the back without the drive jostling any of their injuries more than necessary. The ride was awkward, tense, and silent – save for the tremendous roar of the oh so fabulous engine – but blessedly short and unimpeded by any obstacles.

Tim was on his back on a table in the Cave's state-of-the-art infirmary before Nightwing had even helped Jason limp out of the car. By the time Jason was sitting on his own table, Bruce was settled enough to peal back his cowl and Alfred had appeared to help assess Tim's injuries.

Alfred shot Jason a tight smile – the kind that said he was relieved Jason was back, saddened that he was harmed, and deeply worried about his recklessness – but quickly turned his attention wholly unto Tim.

Meanwhile, Nightwing had removed his mask and gloves and was gingerly working his way through helping Jason strip down to his boxers. His expression was tight as he looked over Jason's wrists – flayed from his struggles against the manacles – and the bruising across his torso – though, Jason was reasonably sure his ribs were only bruised and he didn't have any internal bleeding. Dick's face turned downright dark as Jason's cargo pants were gingerly scooched out of – his eyes locked on the shin that was broken so entirely it seemed more surprising that the bone was not poking through his skin than if it had been.

"You took quite a beating, Little Wing," Dick said, quietly – carefully.

Jason frowned. The nickname still irked him, but he'd never noticed how tentatively Dick had used it before now – before Tim had pointed it out.

"The leg's broken, but I don't think anything else is," Jason said, equally quiet. "The shoulders are both strained, dorsi and anterior deltoids should be fine by tomorrow, but I definitely pulled both teres muscles and the posterior delt."

Dick nodded slowly, gingerly touching his muscles to confirm Jason's self-assessment. His fingers flit lightly over the bruises littering his torso and his murmured an apology before he pressed down to search for pressure or heat that would indicate internal bleeding or any fracture that might've gone unnoticed in the face of worse injury.

Once he'd checked Jason's assessment of the wounds on his torso, Dick helped Jason swing his legs up to rest them on the table and got an IV started in the crook of his elbow. It was mostly a hydration sack, but Jason caught Dick slipping in just a touch of preemptive morphine – knowing that real pain management would have to wait until after Bruce had his say about this debacle. Getting his leg set was a priority too, but that could happen after morphine made him too loopy to debrief.

Jason didn't thank Dick for the meds, but he also wasn't glaring at him as he worked. The former Robin set himself to disinfecting Jason's surface wounds, using a swab to apply generous amounts of antibacterial, numbing goo and then gently pressing bandages to the affected areas. He even wrapped loose bindings around Jason's gingerly treated wrists. He moved carefully, broadcasting his intentions and waiting for Jason to meet him halfway.

There was definitely lidocaine in the goo, or something powerful and instant and meant to take away his pain, because Jason started feeling better almost immediately.

It made him wonder if Dick had done that before, had snuck him something small that Bruce would've never realized he might've needed. He couldn't think of any where he knew it'd happened, but he could think of plenty where he hadn't been paying enough attention to notice.

And another thing that reinforced Tim's view of it was that when Dick was done, he didn't leave. He pulled at his suit – removing the armor and pealing back the skintight layers underneath – until his chest was bare and went about seeing to his own scrapes. And even when he'd finished with that he took a seat at Jason's table-side and waited.

Jason watched him sit there.

It was better than watching as B and Alfred hovered over Tim's unconscious form.

But not by much.

Dick's hands were clenched together, and his weight was on his elbows as he leaned over his knees. He didn't look hurt, but he didn't look good either.

"Dude, you alright?"

Dick flinched like Jason's question had startled him. Maybe it had.

He looked surprised that Jason had asked, surprised that he even cared.

"I'm fine, Little Wing," Dick promised. "I'm sorry I couldn't jump in sooner. You did good, though, keeping that kid safe – considering the circumstances."

A burst of resentment flared in Jason's chest. "How long were you watching."

"Not long," Dick promised immediately, reacting to Jason's unspoken accusation. "I got there just in time to see Sabini's little knife fetish."

Dick's voice darkened at the end, raging at Sabini's other fetish.

"I hope you didn't leave that guy with any teeth," Jason mentioned, agreed.

With a smile more vicious than Jason had seen on Dick before, the vigilante promised, "I left him one. As a reminder. That if he steps out of line a little birdie's comin' back for him."

Jason nodded, intensely grateful for the gymnast's unexpected viciousness – for the unspoken promise that if someone did go back for him, it would be Jason's Robin. "Thanks," Jason grunted.

Dickie fucking beamed at him for the effort.

With a sigh as Jason rationalized fully that Tim was obviously right about the primary reasons he and Dickiebird rubbed elbows – about the fact that Dick wanted him as a brother – he rolled over to stare at the glass wall between him and the bay where Tim was being treated.

Or was finished being treated.

He had an IV in his arm – hydration, painkillers, and no doubt a strong sedative. But he wasn't hooked up to anything more than that, which meant he didn't have any injuries Jason couldn't see just by looking. Even from a room away, Tim looked all kinds of black and blue – his cave-dweller pale skin making the bruises stand out all the more under the stark lighting.

Alfred appeared in Jason's frame of vision – blocking his view of Tim, from right by his shoulder. "Our young guest is sleeping," Alfred announced. "He's sustained some bruising and a single, mild laceration, but nothing too concerning. Physically speaking, he'll be fully recovered by the end of the week. Psychologically... Well, unconscious patients are notoriously impossible to accurately diagnose."

His sass was clipped and pointed, giving Jason an accurate rundown of Tim's condition, and simultaneously announcing a public chastisement of Bruce's choice to knock him out.

Bruce was cowed, but even Jason could barely tell from his reaction – just a very slight pinching around his eyes. He was still wearing most of his gear, but his gauntlets and outer armor had been removed in the process of treating Tim. He was still six and a half feet of scowling Bat in half-armor, but Jason scowled right back in force.

"What happened?"

"Followed a hunch."

See? Jason could do the short dramatic sentences thing, too. B didn't have a copyright on everything with attitude.

"So, like, does everyone else know who the kid in bay 2 is?"

"His name's Tim Drake," Jason supplied, still scowling at Bruce. "He's our neighbor.

Whispering like it was a secret, Dick asked, "We have neighbors?"

He was ignored. But his contribution probably kept Jason from saying something that would push the conversation into genuine-fight-territory.

"There was a rumor that young Timothy Drake had information on Batman's secret identity," Bruce explained. "While the rumor seemed unfounded, the details were concerningly specific and those details originated on the streets with dealers working high end neighborhoods around the branch of Gotham Academy Drake attends – dealers working for Sabini."

"B thought that since it didn't make sense to think a twelve year old knew shit that the entire Gotham police force couldn't figure out, the Sabinis wouldn't act on the rumor," Jason explained. "But drug dealers aren't exactly known for making sense, so I decided to go check it out. Just to gauge the kid's obliviousness and to see if I could clock any runners watchin' him. Turns out, I wasn't the only one who knew about his fucking field trip."

"There was a military grade assault team, Jason," Bruce commented. "They took abducting Timothy Drake very seriously. Care to explain why?"

"You know what, B, no," Jason retorted. "I don't care to explain. You know damn well that they were trying to cover the abduction by making it look like a robbery. You feel like explaining why we didn't do anything to make those stupid rumors go away?"

Bruce took a slow breath, consciously forcing himself not to respond with anger.

"Does he know anything?"

"No, Bruce," Jason growled, "He doesn't know shit. And that's not the point, he's just a fucking kid. We knew a drug lord was targeting a kid and we didn't do anything. Why?"

"Does he know anything?" Bruce repeated, level and firm – he didn't believe Jason about Tim's ignorance. "I did do something, Jason. It should've quashed the idea that Drake knew anything. The only way Sabini's crew maintained the rumor was with something concrete to fuel it. So, what does he know?"

Jason huffed. "He's a fan, Bruce, that's it. Kid got himself a few pictures and his classmate's a junkie that needed an in with Sabini to score. That's it."

Bruce continued to stare him down and Jason resisted the urge to repeat himself. If Jason knew anything at this point in his short and brutal life, it was how to lie to cops.

"The kid took a beating, Bruce," Dick chimed in, "And I saw him when Sabini was asking questions. He doesn't know anything."

It took everything Jason had in him not to whip his head around to face Dick, because if anything Jason had expected Dick to take Bruce's side – caution, over common courtesy. Especially as Jason knew that Dick could probably tell that he was lying, could tell that Tim probably knew something. But Dick was... Dick was covering for him.

Bruce's gaze cut to evaluate the first Robin – who didn't even fucking flinch. Jason was way more impressed with that than he'd thought he'd be, and way more surprised that the frickin' human puppy dog had that kind of spine.

"Fine," Bruce sighed, letting the tension settle into its usual rut. "Let's get that leg set."

Alfred stepped forward then, added a significant pouch of morphine to the drip making its way into Jason's arm. He felt his bone being forcibly adjusted and panted through the pain as the limb was immobilized – between Bruce and Alfred's practiced touch, Jason's leg was in a cast before the morphine even managed to kick in enough to feel.

"Hey, B," Jason asked, as he and Alfred were cleaning up. "Why's Tim still here, still sedated? Why aren't you taking him home?"

"Young Timothy's parents are out of the country, Master Jason," Alfred explained, "And I would feel far more comfortable with keeping him under close observation until we can be sure he has recovered. Letting him sleep for now will aid in that recovery, if nothing else."

Bruce nodded. "Alfred has insisted that we wake him in the morning to assess if he can be safely returned home," he elaborated carefully. "We may be hosting him for most of the weekend, so the Cave is now masks-only. Sorry Alfred, you'll have to stay upstairs. And his door remains locked, at all times. He may not know anything now, but a jaunt around the Cave would certainly be enough to change that."

Grudgingly, Jason agreed.

"You'll stay here tonight as well, tomorrow you can come back up to your room," Bruce added. "You've suffered a shock and the IV drip will keep you hydrated, and its nutrients will kickstart the healing process. In both you and Tim."

"I'll be taking the first shift of watching over you both," Alfred announced. "Master Bruce, I can take it from here. There is a file on your desk that requires your review and you have a meeting at WayneTech's auxiliary laboratory in just over four hours. I suggest at least a nap before you confront the skittish imbeciles who still believe this debacle was mere robbery."

Bruce opened his mouth to accept Alfred's suggestion, but the butler's tirade wasn't quite finished. "They're concerned about your stock prices and I don't believe that anyone's even noticed the absence of young mister Drake."

"Seriously? No one's noticed the kid's even missing yet?" Jason wasn't nearly as shocked by that as he wanted to be – after half the questions Tim had asked him over the last however-many hours, Jason tragically wouldn't be surprised if they really could keep Tim captive here all weekend without his disappearance being noticed.

There was a moment when no one answered and then Alfred said firmly, "We shall take good care of him, Master Jason, that much is for certain."

"Yeah, Alfred," Jason accepted, "Thanks."

He was starting to feel heavy and loopy with the onset of morphine and the retreating flood of adrenaline, and once Bruce left the room even the fight half of his reactionary instincts began to fade away. Consciousness would be quick to fade as well.

Jason was just settling into a comfy position to spend the rest of the night right here when Alfred's low tones reached his ears. "You should head upstairs as well, Master Dick."

"Just another minute, Alfred," Dick replied from his place still close to Jason's bedside. "I just wanna make sure he's okay."

"He will be, young sir," Alfred promised. "He will be."

"He took some pretty hard hits tonight for that kid," Dick explained softly, adding, "He did the Robin name proud protecting him."

"As he often does," Alfred said. Jason heard sound of Alfred making his way over to lay a hand on Dick's shoulder, heard Dick literally sigh into the comforting contact. "While you know I disagree with Master Bruce's decision to pass your mantle on without your blessing, I do believe you've quite 'out grown the pixie boots' as Master Jason says. Partnering with Batman helped you become the young hero you are today, but now you must spread your own wings."

Dick simply breathed for a moment. Then he chuckled. "You might be goin' a little hard on the Bat's thematic punch with the metaphors, Alf."

Jason had hardly dared breathe through the whole exchange, even afterward he held his tongue a moment – waiting for something else to break the silence.

"To bed now, Master Dick," Alfred suggested in that light and warming way of his that was still not at all a legitimate suggestion so much as an indisputable order.

Dick sighed heavily. "Alright, Alfred. I'm going."

He pushed to his feet and the scrape of his chair allowed Jason the excuse to break the moment further. "Shut the hell up," Jason huffed, "Some of us are trying to sleep."

"Apologies, Master Jason," Alfred said, pure teasing.

Jason readjusted his position and grumbled, "Stupid fucking saps."

Alfred's chuckle met his ears as the lights dimmed. "Hush now, Master Jason," the butler chided, "All young heroes need their rest."

"Aye, aye, Alf," Jason slurred, as he found the sweet spot on the marginally comfy table he was stuck on for tonight. "Whatever you say."

Jason sunk into oblivion feeling more like a hero than he ever had before outside of those few moments when he was actually punching in faces to keep a victim safe.

It was a pretty damn good way to finish off a fucking awful day.

Tim was safe, his secret knowledge was safely secret, the capes had nothing to worry about regarding his secret, and another skeevy drug-lord was off the Gotham streets.

And he didn't quite hate his brother any more, thanks to Tim.

Yeah, it was a damn good day.


	5. Chapter 5: Checking Up

Chapter Five: Checking Up

Dick is the first to notice something's different about Jason.

Which is fair, because even though Bruce is the first person to see Jason after he wakes up on Saturday, a full 27 hours after being rescued from Sabini (ten of which he'd spent sleeping peacefully in his own bed instead of the Cave's infirmary) – and even though Alfred is the first person to talk to him after he comes downstairs for breakfast – the bulk of what is actually noticeably different about Jason is aimed directly at Dick.

Literally.

Because Jason is starting.

At Dick.

From across his plate of scrambled eggs and sausage and toast piled high with strawberry preserves instead of the peach marmalade Dick likes and has on his own plate, Jason is staring. At Dick. Directly.

He's not even glaring at him, he's just... watching.

Which actually makes Dick more self-conscious than if Jason had been glaring, makes him think he's done something wrong. Something especially wrong.

Dick had never asked for a little brother, and to be perfectly honest he could admit that he hadn't exactly been very nice to the one he'd acquired unexpectedly. While he had concrete and valid reasons to be pissed at Bruce for how he'd handled things, Dick wasn't quite self-centered enough to miss how he hadn't done right by Jason either.

He'd screwed up their relationship in the beginning and now he spent most of his time trying to avoid making it worse. Which meant most simply that he spent most of his time straight up avoiding it...

The longest span of time Dick had spent alone in a room with Jason since storming off to California a few weeks before his sixteenth birthday – to go be Robin with people who appreciated him and his skill and his right to wear the R, because it was his and always would be – was about the length of a Star Wars movie. The longest they'd spent together without such a specific and effective distraction was about twenty minutes.

In which Alfred usually checked in on them halfway through.

Because Jason does deserve the R.

And he's always resented that the older brother he'd never asked for thought he didn't.

Which isn't exactly true, but Dick has never been able to explain that before Jason – brilliantly observant, woefully astute, and brutally willing to cut to the quick as he was – said something that made Dick get defensive. Which is when the yelling always started.

And the quiet moments in between the yelling had always been punctuated by glaring.

But now Jason is staring – and distinctly not glaring – and Dick doesn't know what he did, or what he should do now. So, he sits in silence and plays with his eggs and worries.

Because something is different about Jason this morning, and he doesn't know why – or what it has to do with him. Or what Jason thinks it has to do with him.

Because if Jason's pissed with him for not getting to him quicker last night, for not jumping in earlier – early enough to stop Sabini from breaking his leg perhaps – then Jason would already be yelling. But he's not. He's staring.

And Dick doesn't know what to do.

"Do you have a driver's license?"

Dick is so startled by the question he nearly drops his fork.

Actually, he does drop it. He just manages to catch it before it skitters off the counter.

"B won't let me in the Cave with my leg and Alf won't let me have the keys to any cars topside until I'm legal," Jason explains – without explaining anything.

"Yeah, I've got my license."

Dicks voice doesn't squeak or waver. He's moderately certain that some sort of magic or robotic voice replacement tech is behind the phenomenon. Or maybe his Robin conditioning is finally proving useful outside of the dark allies where his calm could comfort victims.

Jason nods. He's still staring.

But now he's squinting, evaluative. Not quite a glare, but closer.

"Cool. Can you drive me somewhere after breakfast?"

Dick nods. He decides not to ask to ask why Jason isn't asking Alfred to drive him.

He also decides not to ask where Jason wants to go until they're already in the car.

They don't speak again until after Dick pulls into the circle at the end of the Drake Estate's mile-long driveway, and even then, it's just a gruff C'mon to hurry Dick along while Jason hauls himself out of the car on his own.

Dick is slightly distracted as he cuts the engine. He nods to Jason – who's paying him zero attention – as he marvels openly at the fact that they do, apparently, have neighbors.

The Drake mansion isn't quite a massive or effortlessly grand as Wayne Manor, but it's a decently imposing imitation. There's wealth here, excess. And no hint of the soft touch that Alfred has to bring a human element into the aching chill of life with money.

Dick wants to ask what they're doing here, of all places, but Jason is focused.

It's a feat for Jason to wrestle his crutches out of the car and limp his way up the wide steps of the ostentation front stair, but he manages. He does it without even making Dick feel terrible about not offering to help – though he knows if he did offer, Jason's only response would be to curse and try to whack him with the pointy end of his crutches.

Dick follows silently up the stairs after him and waits as Jason rings the doorbell impatiently, pressing it again after only a few seconds of silence.

He's not quite scowling at the Drakes' front door, but he's not smiling either. Whatever he's thinking about is serious enough to warrant asking Dick for help instead of Alfred. Dick is definitely concerned by that, but there a hopeful anxiousness twisting in him too.

Because Jason needed help, and he asked Dick to provide it.

It's not much, but it's something.

Jason's leaning on the doorbell again when Dick hears a shuffling inside that indicates someone coming to check the matter. Dick hopes it's not an elderly butler – Alfred moves around pretty well for his age, but it's a big house and it takes even him a minute to get to the door on the bizarre occasion Wayne Manor has unexpected security-approved visitors.

The Drakes' equivalent can't possibly be as light-footed or quick and Dick wants to tell Jason that it's not whoever's fault that it takes a while getting from one end of a mansion to the other on a Saturday morning for an unanticipated guest.

There's the sound of the lock being turned, but the door doesn't open immediately.

Jason is about to lean on the bell again – and Dick is seriously considering how counter-productive it will be to stop him from being overly rude – when the knob finally spins and the massive solid-wood structure sweeps inward.

Dick plasters a smile on his face and –

It's the kid from Thursday night.

Dick's whole being freezes.

It's the kid that took a beating because Sabini thought he knew something about Batman.

Dick is stuck in a sudden mental rut of wondering why this kid – and Dick know he's a tough one, he's seen it, but he's a head shorter than Jason and probably weighs as much as Dick's leg and he's just survived a torturous kidnapping and should be on bedrest with soup and blankets and stuffed animals – why this kid is answering his own door.

Especially in a house like this. His family is clearly rich beyond reason and could have a flurry of staff to care for the household's daily needs and to fawn sweetly over the poor injured young master. So why is he answering the door?

When his door costs as much as the entire Trailer the Flying Graysons called home in Haly's Circus. When there are still bruises on his face where Sabini's fingers gripped him that haven't quite gone ugly and greenish from healing. When the butterfly bandage on his cheek is still the only thing holding the skin together beneath the antiseptic goo.

Jason's brain is clearly doing the same acrobatics as Dicks, asking questions it's not really keen on getting answered because the answers can't be good, but Jason recovers faster.

Which is good because the Drake boy – Timmy, Dick remembers, except no, that's just what Jason called him, he introduced himself as Tim in his brief moment of lucidity on Friday morning – is looking between the pair on his doorstep like one of the rescue dogs Dick remembers Haly bringing into the circus fold on their first days of being treated well.

They were cautious and skittish and quick to shy away, but also a little bit awed by the care and attention being paid to them – slightly overwhelmed to say the least. And Tim Drake is clearly in a similar state of mind.

Dick is frozen on the doorstep.

Tim is frozen in the doorway.

Jason falters too, but only for a moment. Then he's using his crutches to nudge Tim out of the way, so he can swing himself through the door and into the Drakes' imposing foyer.

Dick follows.

Tim remembers to close the door – and lock it too, with a sturdy deadbolt that Dick knows will provide actual security – and then shuffles after Dick and Jason.

Silent on his feet – impressive, given the floppy sneakers he's wearing – Tim allows Jason to lead the way through the mansion's sprawl to its kitchen. Tim is watching Jason's back as he swings forward on his crutches, which gives Dick time to look around the mansion as they walk. He knows Jason's scoping the place out too, and he's glad Jason can manage it with that subtle street-wise skill he's got ingrained. Dick could probably be subtle – he was trained by Batman – but he's finding it hard to rein in the reaction he's having to the place.

It's absolutely sterile here.

More like a museum than like a house.

Nothing looks soft, or like it's meant for people to sit on, and the few chairs and cushions Dick has clocked as they move through the sprawl don't look like anyone has ever used them. There's not a speck of dust, but honestly that just makes it worse. There are people that come through here, in order to clean it at least, but nobody lives here.

"What're you saying about your face," Jason asks bluntly when he stumbles upon the masterwork that is the Drake kitchen. Dick can tell that finding the kitchen has help Jason relax a little, that being in a place that's meant to be sterile has helped at least as much as the prospect of diving into the soothing rhythm of cooking, but Tim doesn't pick up on Jason's new degree of ease and relax himself. If anything, he tenses more.

"I'm going to say that I tried to launch a rocket in the back yard and it blew up in my face," Tim explains. He watches as Jason moves to investigate his fridge.

He notes when Jason stiffens, flinches as he realizes what he just said to prompt it, and he whips his head around when Dick is the one to speak up about it. "You're 'going to say'?"

Dick knows the way he blurted it in aching disbelief is rude. Not calm. Not helpful.

But he's lost sensation in his limbs and his stomach is still sinking towards the center of the earth at supersonic speeds.

They had dropped Tim back into his bed at 2pm on Friday afternoon, once Bruce had convinced Alfred that he was stable and well on his way to healing. That was almost 20 hours ago. Dick's stomach churns as he realizes that no one's been to check on him in almost a full day.

Tim survived a brutal beating, and he's been dealing with the mental fallout of his kidnapping – not to mention the physical aspects of his recovery – entirely alone.

Dick is staring at Tim, wide-eyed and worried, and he knows it isn't helping as Tim looks down and toes at the marble floor.

"Mrs. Simz doesn't work on Fridays," he mumbles. "She thinks I spend Friday nights with my school's chess club."

Jason snorts. "Of course, she does. That sounds perfectly reasonable."

He pauses. Anyone but Dick probably wouldn't be able to catch the way he steels himself and forces down a mix of rage and worry before he asks lightly, "Hey, kid, you got any flour hiding in this joint? Baking soda?"

"Why?"

"I'm gonna make pancakes, obviously," Jason replies, shouldering open the fridge and pulling out milk and eggs. He spreads his haul on the island and shoots Dick a look that he hopes means that he should start investigating the Drake cabinets for mixing bowls and a griddle and such. Because that's what Dick starts doing.

"Pancakes?"

"Yeah, they're kinda like pizza – you eat them," Jason replies, a gruff amusement in his voice that tells Dick there's some sort of inside joke involved.

Dick wants to think that there's no part of the joke where he should be legitimately concerned that Tim doesn't eat, but he also remembers how easy it was to pick the kid up when they rescued him. Sure, he's only twelve, but Dick is fairly certain that he weighed at least twice what Tim does when he was twelve. Comparing him to Jason – even the emaciated twelve year old Jason that had first been brought to the Manor – would be too tragic to let him keep the smile on his face, so Dick consciously fights the urge.

Tim jumps in to help direct Dick and Jason around his kitchen, Tim acting as Jason's legs while Jason barks orders. Dick didn't know Jason could cook, but he's not as surprised as he thought he'd be – even when Jason whips out the fancy tricks like cracking the eggs one-handed and twirling his spatula as he times the flips perfectly.

Butter and syrup appear on the island as Dick tries to help put the finishing touches on their meal. It's been over an hour since breakfast, so Dick can definitely eat – and he knows Jason is probably already starving. Tim is looking at the looming stack of pancakes warily, however, and Dick is pleased with himself for not shooting Jason a worried look.

It gets even harder to resist when they actually settle down to eat and Tim expends a painstaking amount of effort on arranging the careful stack of pancakes on his plate instead of making any move to dig in.

"So, Timmy," Jason says around a mouthful of pancakes, "Find any cool new toys since you've been home playin' with your rocket?"

Both confused, Dick and Tim look blankly at Jason – who rolls his eyes. Then he taps his ear and makes a wide gesture about the kitchen. He's asking if Tim's found any Bat bugs.

Dick knows Batman must've left some – Tim was suspected of knowing his secrets for a reason, after all, and Bruce would certainly want to keep tabs on any future developments that might potentially occur. What Dick does not know is why Jason's asking Tim if he found any listening devices hidden in his home – why he's referencing the plausible option so casually, so openly. Unless... unless Tim knows.

Scandalized, Tim looks between Jason and Dick – redness creeping up his neck until his ears are bright ruby – and then stares down at his pancakes. He nods.

Like he's pulling teeth, Jason waits a beat to make sure Tim is still alive and then asks with the same casual air, "Find any in here?"

This time, Tim shakes his head, still staring resolutely at his pancakes – and still making no move to actually eat them.

Jason nods, satisfied.

Tim waits, but Jason doesn't say anything else.

Eventually, peeks up. Looks at Jason. Waits.

Then he slowly, sheepishly turns his head to look at Dick. He's waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the accusations and yelling to start. Tim does know their secret, and he expects to be in serious trouble for it.

Jason levels his own look at Dick, daring him to break the tenuous trust they've developed in the last few hours by voicing any sort chastisement.

When they'd first brought Jason and Tim back to the Cave, Batman had been on Jason about getting to the truth of the rumors around Tim – to the point of absurdity, considering that there were two traumatized and injured kids to care for, considering that Jason himself was being questioned before Batman would give his broken leg the medical attention it needed...

Dick had spoken up in defense of Jason – asserting his own opinion that Tim was ignorant of the secret that got him wrapped up in this mess – mostly because he was pissed at Bruce for being so callous. Dick knew that Bruce cared, that he cared so much he buried all of his feelings deep beneath an impenetrable layer of cold practicality so he could deal with the pragmatic details of resolving the situation.

But it was really hard to remember that he cared when it felt more like he wanted answers in his own interrogation rather than to help the adopted son he'd just rescued from a drug-lord who'd been asking the same questions.

But Dick had defended Jason's stand against Bruce.

At the time, he hadn't realized Jason was lying – that Bruce honestly did have a valid reason to worry about Tim's ability to threaten Batman's secrets. He knew Jason wasn't being entirely honest, but he'd brushed it off as embarrassment at getting caught and needing rescue.

Knowing what he does now, that Tim is aware of much more than he should be, Dick isn't certain he would've made the same call. On the one hand, he wants to trust his brother's judgement – to stay focused on Tim as a victim rather than a threat – but he also feels the urge to trust his mentor's trend of caution, because if Tim threatens Bruce's secrets he's also threatening Dick's. And Jason's. And possibly Barbara, and the Titans, and any other mask they've ever worked with... Tim could be very dangerous if Jason's wrong about trusting him.

But Tim is waiting to be yelled at – waiting to face the good guys' wrath for simply being clever. And Dick had seen the R on Tim's sweater. He's a fan, and he's been clever, and he'd taken one hell of a beating for a twelve year old kid to be expected to handle.

And he hadn't talked.

It was more than Dick would've expected from most grown-ups. It was as much or even more than he'd expect from adults trained to withstand interrogation.

If Dick needed proof that Tim wasn't a threat, that was it.

Tim was still staring at him – waiting for his anger. Waiting to be punished.

Jason was staring too – waiting for a reason to get angry himself.

Resolved to let Tim continue to fly under Batman's radar, Dick doesn't say anything. He just takes another bite of his pancakes. The bite goes down easier than he expects, validation that his gut trusts Tim on a level beyond instinctual. Something more like kinship.

Tim keeps staring – like he doesn't quite recognize what it means that Dick is just going on with eating like a major secret affecting both of their lives hasn't just been exposed – but Jason relaxes. He even flashes Dick what could pass for a smile.

It makes Dick feel like he's made the right decision all over again.

He's got very little good history with Jason, but he's working on his own issues and he thinks that, just maybe, he and Jason can work with this – can use Tim's hush-hush existence as a bit of common ground to try standing by each other instead of against each other.

Tim is still staring, though.

Still waiting, still worried, still convinced that he's in trouble.

"Pancakes not to your liking, Tim?" Dick asks, flashing him a grin. It's not the dazzling, thousand-watt smile that's always made him shine as a media darling, but it's still bright and teasing enough to startle Tim. And genuine.

Jason growls before Tim recovers, retorting, "Hey, my pancakes are fantastic, asshole."

Dick gives a shrug, his smiling building as he feels out Jason's grumble and realizes that there's almost no real malice in it – none of the gritty defensiveness he's used to from Jason.

"They're, um, great," Tim replies in a squeak.

With another snort, Jason says, "You haven't even tried them yet."

He reaches across the island and swoops a smear of butter onto Tim's topmost pancake, giving the terrified youngster a mild heart attack. He pushes the syrup across the table with his fork – it's good stuff, real maple in a ceramic jug – until it clicks pointedly against Tim's plate.

"Eat."

Tim picks up his fork, obedient but still anxious and pushes a few bites around before he finally picks one up and forces it into his mouth and down his throat.

Watching as Tim swallows and waiting until it looks like he might take another bite of his own volition, Jason says, "You gotta relax, Timmers. We're the frickin good guys."

Dick gives a supportive smile as Tim forces himself to nod.

His eyes jump guiltily to Dick for a moment but then he settles and takes another bite of his pancakes. This time he looks much less like he wants to throw the food back up immediately.

"How's, um, how's your leg," Tim asks. Guilty, which makes Dick's lungs tighten, but at least he's speaking up – which means he might be able to be convinced he's not at fault.

"It's good," Jason replies with a shrug. "I've gotta stay off it completely for the next week, and I'm benched for the next three, at least, but it doesn't hurt anymore."

Dick snorts. "You're supposed to stay off it for three weeks," Dick counters automatically. He lets himself fall into older-brother over-dive to add, "And B wants to keep you benched for the next two months. Alf might actually put you in a coma if he sees you trying to go down to the Cave before the cast comes off."

With a shrug, Jason says, "So like two weeks and we call it even."

Dick tries to claw back the sigh that's threatening to cut off all his air.

"It was a pretty bad break," Tim pipes up. He looks slightly guilt-ridden, but he forges on to add, "But it was direct contact to the bone, instead of to a joint, and I'm guessing it was a stable, simple tibia fracture – no skin penetration or muscle tears – and it was either transverse or very slightly oblique, so it should heal cleanly."

"Not if he bungs it up by trying to do cartwheels on it too quickly," Dick counters.

"I'm gonna leave the cartwheeling to you, Dickiebird," Jason replies with a chuckle that's warm and teasing and so much nicer than the conversations he's used to having with Jason.

It almost sounds like they're just talking about your average sports injury, and Tim even joins in a few more times as the discussion shifts to Dick and his penchant for cartwheeling down the long halls of Wayne Manor. Tim's a fan of the Flying Graysons, and after a little figuring, Dick actually remembers meeting him before – before the show for a picture and a hug and a somersault promise, before Zucco, before his parents fell... before life got so complicated.

Dick and Jason and Tim stay gathered around the island in the Drakes' kitchen until Tim has completely finished his plate of pancakes without needing to have Jason force him through each bite. And they stay an hour after they've cleaned up, and an hour after that too.

They stay until Alfred sends Dick a text to warn him that Bruce is getting antsy with their absence, antsy enough to start wondering where they've gone.

Tim looks sad as they start gearing up to head back to the Manor, but Jason assures him that they'll be back tomorrow – and after school on Monday, assuming Tim actually goes to school on Monday. Neither vigilante would blame him if he wanted to take a day off.

"Why?"

"Because you got beat up by a drug-lord," Jason told him with a gruff, but affectionate exasperation Dick can hardly believe he's hearing from the ill-tempered teenager, "That totally warrants a fucking vacation day or two."

Tim shakes his head. "No, I mean why are you gonna come here? Why're you here at all, if I'm not in trouble for... you know." He mumbles through most of the words, falling back into the timid little thing he was when he first saw Dick and Jason standing at his door.

It's only now that Dick realizes how much he'd managed to come out of that shell.

"We're checking up on you, baby bird," Jason huffs, "Duh."

"But why?"

Tim stands there like the question is perfectly innocent, like it's not one of the most heartbreaking thing Dick has ever been asked.

If Jason didn't have a broken leg and crutches to wrestle with, Dick is sure that Tim would be trapped under Jason's arm getting his hair mussed beyond all possible repair. As it stands, Jason looks halfway to smacking Tim with one of his crutches.

Or smacking whoever made him feel like his current state of being is somehow one that is in any way an acceptable situation for a child.

But Dick smiles and slings an arm around Jason's shoulders.

"Because we're Robins," he says, promising, "And that's what we do."

There's a pause.

And then Tim nods, smiling back in a way that makes Dick's limbs feel gooey as he goes all warm and fuzzy. He can feel Jason lean into his side, can see that he's smiling too – not as broadly as Dick is, but the expression is just as genuine. A bit surprised, perhaps, but happy.

The door closes behind them and Jason clambers into his side of the car without beating Dick with his crutches for helping. The drive back to the Manor is just as quick as the one away from it this morning, but not as quiet.

The Robins get themselves on a united platform about having gone to visit Drake as civilians – he'd recognized Jason as a Wayne and they'd gone to commiserate with Jason as a fellow victim of random, rumor fueled violence. They explain again to Bruce that Tim doesn't know anything about Batman and latch onto Alfred's concern that the boy's parents are still out of the country. The Robins volunteer to go over and check on him tomorrow.

At Alfred's insistence, they agree to spend most of the day there, and several days next week – and bring over some of Alfred's amazing, high-nutrition cooking.

With all three of them set against Bruce in this, he relents to giving full approval to their plan – assuming that Nightwing patrols with Batman for the next three weeks while Robin remains obediently on bedrest.

The butler sides with Bruce on that one, but he gives the boys a wink behind Bruce's back and it makes Dick get that warm and fuzzy glow again.

He's halfway giddy all through that night's patrol.

Batman notices.

But Dick doesn't explain when he's asked about it.

He just says that he and Jason are finally seeing eye to eye about what it means to hero in Gotham, to be Robin... to be a good Robin.

He smiles into the sunrise after a long night of beating up petty thugs on Gotham's street corners – of looking into and utterly quashing any remaining rumors that Timothy Drake has any information on Batman. And maybe the throws a few extra flips into the maneuvers that carry him from rooftop to rooftop of Gotham's city skyline.

It's a beautiful day and Dick resolves to make the most of the chances he's been given – however unfortunate the circumstances around them. The world is already a slightly better place, and Dick is determined to make it more so, bit by bit.

Because we're Robins. And that's what we do.


	6. Chapter 6: Safe

It's five weeks after Jason disobeyed Batman's orders to drop the idea of investigating the rumor that a random rich kid knew the vigilantes' secret identities.

Five weeks since Jason let himself be kidnapped by the upstart drug lord Lorenzo Sabini in an attempt to protect the kid who was Sabini's real target – the kid rumored to know impossible things about Batman and Robin.

Five weeks since Jason's leg was broken – in the line of a duty he never should've been asked to shoulder, never should've been allowed to feel bound to carry – and Bruce Wayne rediscovered the impossible duality of being responsible for the life of a child that he'd somehow managed to forget. That had faded from his mind when Dick had grown up enough to go off on his own – without his Guardian having any legal say in stopping him.

Batman has been able to bury the raging concern, the guilt he bears for introducing Jason to such a dangerous lifestyle – for not doing more to discourage his interest. Batman is able to silence the voice that says Jason acted honorably, if stupidly, by insisting that Robin needs to do better, to be better, so that he can keep the boy inside the costume safer.

But Bruce is having trouble letting Jason heal.

'Suffocating' Jason calls his attentions, merely 'stupid codling he doesn't need'.

Jason submitted to three weeks of strictly bedrest – a godsend if Bruce could ever believe in such things. He'd offered only mild resistance to being benched for six weeks – to rigorous and thorough PT, and light, careful exercise and a slow return to the training regimen that kept shaping Robin's growing body into something more heroic than the average simple human.

But there was no point in even trying to bring up the idea of retiring Jason's pixie boots for good – of trying to convince him to stand down from the Vigilante fight.

Bruce knows that, but he still tries it – once, in a terse conversation that gets shut down before he even makes it to the first point of reasoning – and then he swallows the rest of the worry and buries it in silence alongside his fury at Jason's constant reckless disregard for his own safety. Bruce knows he can't stop Jason, can't force him out of the cape, so Batman vows to train him harder, push him further, make him stronger, make him faster, more durable, more prepared – keep him safer.

It's a compromise.

And it has to be enough.

Because Jason is already back on his feet.

He broke his own way out of the cast almost a week ago – refused to apologize or sit for another casting – and though Alfred's managed to somehow force him into a sturdy brace, guilted him into maintaining his use of the crutches... Jason's been back inside the Cave twice already while Batman has been out – at least twice.

The Cave's security cameras have caught him on the Salmon Ladder the last two nights in a row – going through two sets his first night back, and four the next. So that was two nights, at least, that security footage showed Jason working out inside the Cave, but it was possible there were nights he wasn't tagged on the Cave's security footage. Dick had certainly learned to sneak down without being caught on camera. Bruce doubted that Dick would share his secrets with Jason – but it was not beyond possibility.

Bruce kept meaning to add more cameras, to ensure that every inch of the cave was covered by an unblinking eye equipped with filters in Starlight and infrared, but that project kept getting sidelined somehow. He kept getting distracted.

Because his kids kept getting hurt.

But it's been five weeks since Jason got hurt.

He's getting better, and his bullheaded determination is just the same as it was before the injury – the stubborn streak still apparent, now even more so if anything had changed.

But there's something else about Jason that's different.

Bruce almost can't see it – almost convinces himself it's not happening, because he's so damn hopeful that it is happening that his chest constricts with this strange kind of joy or pride or something and he doesn't know what to do with it.

Because Dick and Jason are talking.

Not fighting, talking.

Alfred's caught them playing video games. Together.

They were supposed to be doing homework – Jason's been back at school for three weeks and while Dick's purposefully selected freshman college classes don't attendance, they do give assignments that need to be turned in online – but still...

Dick and Jason are getting along.

His adopted sons are becoming brothers.

Bruce notices.

And wants it to be real so badly that it hurts.

Batman notices, too.

But Batman notices other things, as well.

Batman notices how the Wayne Boys have befriended the kid Jason got himself kidnapped alongside.

Batman notices how Nightwing volunteers to swing off on his own every night for a cursory once over of deterrence through Coventry and around the area in the Upper West Side where Sabini's gang and the rumors they'd acted on had run amok – had being the operative word, seeing as how the entire area had been scared so straight there hasn't even been a purse snatching in over a month.

Batman notices how quiet the supposed-civilian kid at the center of those rumors is when he's home alone – which is often – how the only thing he talks about out loud, in range of Batman's listening devices, is how much he admires the caped crusaders and how much he wants for their ramshackle team to work together as brothers and sisters in arms – to work through their issues and be a kind of family.

Batman notices.

And he watches.

And he's concerned by what he sees.

So tonight, as Nightwing swings off towards Coventry – with a big smile and a wholly unnecessary flip – Batman decides to investigate the kid firsthand.

The civilian's name is Timothy Jackson Drake and he is twelve years old, enrolled as a sixth grader at Gotham Preparatory Academy Primary Campus. His parents are Jack and Janet Drake, famed globe-trotting researchers and archeologists, and the second generation of Drakes to head up Drake Industries – a leading Wayne Enterprises competitor. The Drakes reside in the mansion that neighbors the Wayne Estate – another statement of how DI both complements and competes with WE.

Timothy Drake seems mostly unremarkable.

He's skipped two grades, and his teachers say he's got a remarkable mind, but he lacks significant social skills and spends most of his time alone – tinkering with some project or other. He's never demonstrated a particular drive to be anything when he grows up, but he's applied to the Wayne Tech summer camps three years in a row – despite being under the age requirement – and his bedroom is littered with DI equipment and half-finished robots he's clearly engineered himself in the hours and hours he spends unsupervised.

Lucius Fox likes him.

In the way that some people like puppies.

Bruce isn't even entirely sure how Lucius Fox discovered the Drake kid, but it's in his files in the Batcomputer – Fox has his name on a recruitment list, circled in red sharpie with a smiley face next to it.

So, Timothy Drake is a smart kid.

But he's just a kid.

According to all of Batman's information, Timothy Drake is just a kid.

A civilian who happened to have a bad stroke of luck and got his name wrapped up in a rumor founded on nothing more than a junkie's word and some evidence that the kid in question was a vigilante fan.

Is still a fan, somehow, despite the circumstance that admiration landed him in.

Timothy Jackson Drake seems like nothing more than a dedicated fan – a child, not a threat. But the evidence is so peculiar – there are ridiculously strong indications that the rumor carried truth, and yet... the notion that the child knows nothing is so convincing that Dick and Jason agree on it... which in and of itself makes the evidence seem suspect...

Thus, Batman is set on investigating the matter further for himself.

A twelve year old civilian would be in bed at this time of night, tucked safely into the labyrinth of the Drake Mansion.

So as Nightwing peals away to the west, Batman plots a course northward.

He's planned this carefully. His choice of direction does not immediately alert Nightwing to his intentions. He's been rotating where he patrols after splitting off from Nightwing, moving counterclockwise by a dozen blocks every few days. Now he's pointed right towards the Robbinsville area, where he's stashed one of his getaway vehicles – a rather bland, all-black motorcycle that's nothing special, but is quick and maneuverable enough to get him to the Drake Estate and back before Nightwing realizes he's deviated.

He even has Batgirl prepped to back Nightwing up if something happens – Barbara is visiting her father this weekend and doing research for her own case in Chinatown. She might not be actively patrolling, but Batman had been sure to give her warning of his activities.

He trusts her discretion, and he knows she would be as worried as him about Nightwing's probable – and possibly willful – oversight of the threat posed by Drake. Batman does not want to think Nightwing would be so foolish as to dismiss a threat simply because it doesn't seem actively threatening – or worse, because he wanted to curry favor with his adoptive brother – But it's always better to be safe.

So, Batman is tracking north – from slightly further east than he'd originally planned, drawn off course by what seemed to be a mugging, but quickly resolved as Batman ID'd a drunk man resisting as his friend took away his keys – and he's determined to get to the bottom of Drake's capabilities and influence.

He's about to swing down to the last tall building before the midrises and family homes of Robbinsville take over Gotham's footprint when he spies a figure huddled on the rooftop.

Had Batman been approaching from his planned route, he wouldn't have seen the figure until he touched down on the roof – within easy knife throwing distance of the stranger, with no chance to react if an attack was imminent.

Carefully, Batman swings around to the far side of the building and climbs silently up to roof level after landing on a balcony. He creeps close enough to ascertain that the would-be assailant is small – even with a massive jacket attempting to keep out the late January chill, the figure is miniscule... a child.

Concern leaps, unbidden, into his chest as he wonders what could possibly bring a child onto a freezing cold rooftop in the middle of the night. The apartment building is not the lowest rent residence in the region, but it has its fair share of alcoholics and abusers. It would not be unheard of for a child to sneak away for what respite they can get and the Bat knows that this situation takes precedence to his Drake investigation.

Batman is just about to announce his presence – From far enough away to hopefully prevent the kid from falling off the roof in fright, though he has his grapple gun ready just in case – when the kid shifts.

An eerie blue glow lights up the crouching figure's face as his phone flares briefly to life.

It's Timothy Jackson Drake.

Batman frowns, continues to silently observe.

Drake curls more tightly around his knees. He huffs – breath turning instantly to steam that catches in the city's light – And mutters, "He should be here by now... There's no sirens, no breakouts, nothing to keep him away... unless he's not coming this way tonight... but he should be... he's been moving north... but maybe I miss-counted the interval, or maybe I'm too far north... but this is the best vantage to check on Robinsv-"

His mumbled monologue – which Batman is certain he is not intentionally speaking aloud – is interrupted by a sneeze.

"Bless you," Batman says, stepping from the darkest shadows.

"Thanks," Tim returns.

A beat passes, and then Tim whirls around with a string of oddly pronounced Chinese curses spilling from his tongue.

"Batman," Tim breathes, awestruck and a little bit fearful.

"Timothy," Batman returns, "I hear you've been looking for me."

It's true, the kid had just mumbled as much. There was no one else he could possibly be waiting for here, not with the details he'd murmured about having tracked to find him.

"Um, kinda," the kid admits.

He's not as surprised by Batman's recognition of him – of the Bat using his name directly – as Batman would've thought. He is nervous though, antsy. Batman scans him for weapons, but nothing notable shows up in any of his cowl's filters and the coat is too cumbersome for any shapes beneath it to be positively identified.

Tim does have something in his hands, though – something he's clutched close to his chest. Bare fingers glow ghostly in the night, tremble in the freezing air.

It's not a weapon that he's holding, or a camera – like might be expected and acceptable from a fan. It's a set of note cards. Note. Cards. Like he's practicing for a speech.

On an ice cold Gotham rooftop in the middle of the night.

Bruce Wayne is thrown by that. Far enough to make Batman pause.

Batman regards the kid standing before him in the darkness.

Timothy Drake stares back.

"Did you have a reason?" Batman asks eventually.

"Huh?"

"To be looking for me, did you have a reason?"

Timothy looks down at his hands, at the half-crushed note cards he's holding. "Yeah," he says slowly, quiet with the kind of resignation Batman knows is guilt.

"Well?" Batman prompts when Timothy offers nothing more.

The kid flinches, and Batman fights a wince of his own.

The obvious reasons Nightwing has for underestimating this kid assert themselves plainly. He is a child, small for his age and easily frightened. There seems no reason to suspect him of anything – except that he was waiting on a rooftop for Batman, intentionally. A rooftop even Batman didn't know he would be visiting until about a week ago.

"I'm worried about Robin," Timothy admits. "And Nightwing, and Batgirl, for that matter, but mostly Robin."

"Why?"

Another flinch. Bruce Wayne consciously tries to reel back the Batman 'grr factor', as Dick has termed it. And yet... Timothy clearly knows more than he should. Perhaps the gravel and growl is worth it to extract that information.

"Because they need you to listen to them – that's why you fought with Nightwing to begin with, right? You, um, you passed his mantle on without letting him explain why he didn't want you to?" Tim's actively struggling to make eye-contact.

Batman doesn't verbalize a response.

He's evaluating how this kid could possibly k ow what he does without knowing the names beneath the masks – it's possible, he supposes, but extremely unlikely.

"I get why you didn't, he was still a kid and not very good at making his important points clear, but when he went to California, he didn't want you to let him go, he wanted you to bring him home," Timothy rambles, losing his battle for eye-contact.

Batman scowls.

Timothy swallows dryly. Consults his notes.

"They need you to help them," Timothy says.

Batman's scowl deepend and he must make some sound because Timothy doesn't just flinch this time, he yelps and curls into himself. His cards get squeezed so tightly they pop out of his hands and scatter across the rooftop. Timothy dives after them, but the roof is wet with the afternoon's snow shower and the antifreeze that keeps it from becoming ice.

There is no recovering the careful presentation Timothy clearly had planned for this meeting. But Timothy isn't willing to admit defeat immediately.

"Timothy Jackson Drake," Batman says as the kid in question scrambles with his wet paper, frowning at the smudged and ruined ink like he should have been able to plan for that – like he should've had a contingency.

At Batman's voice saying his full name, Timothy freezes and stares up at him like a frightened deer.

"Tell me how and why you have come to know so much about the relationships between the Gotham masks."

"That's not important," Timothy says. Quick, dismissive, like the point truly doesn't matter in his world-view, or to his understanding of his place in it.

"It's not?"

"No. What's important is that you're not letting them do their jobs," Timothy accuses.

And then he promptly freezes and stares up at Batman like he just then has realized not only what he said, but how – how direct and confrontational it was.

"They don't have jobs," Batman replies, level and calm. "They are children."

"Not when they're wearing masks," Timothy snaps back immediately. "When the masks are on, they're vigilantes. Nothing else."

Batman narrows his eyes at Timothy's temerity.

And fights himself to keep from agreeing with Timothy's point. But his disagreement doesn't make it any less true. No matter how much he wants to remember that under the masks the heroes who have joined his crusade in Gotham are children, he can't ignore the truth of Timothy Drake's words: when the masks are on, they're not children – They can't be.

Batman cannot ignore that – can't pretend it away.

But he can insist on one smaller truth. "They do not have jobs."

Timothy glared – actually glared at Batman in full cape and cowl and scowl – and said firmly, "Their job is to make sure you remember why is it that you do yours."

Batman blinked behind the lenses of his cowl.

"That's not how it works," Batman defends. Weakly – he knows.

But he's not entirely sure what to do with this child, this strangely mature tiny human with hope and sweetness and innocence – and uncomfortably valid points – lecturing him like Batman is the errant child here.

"You can't possibly be that stupid," Timothy says – a moment later looking wide-eyed and horrified by his words, yet still going on with speaking as if his mouth had detached itself from is brain and was running on a will of its own. "They care about what happens to you, which makes you care about it. They need you alive, and you – on some level, at least – recognize that need. It keeps you safer. And it makes you be a better person, in trying to set a good example for them to follow. And that's important."

Tim pulls more air into his lungs, enough for another leg of his tirade, and goes on, "Without Robin, Batman is too violent, too aggressive... like Green Arrow starting to gain ground in Star City; you're too much like the criminals you hunt to make a genuine, lasting difference. Without Robin, you're just scary. Robin tempers you; makes you as inspiration – makes people believe that you aren't just hurting bad guys, but also protecting good ones."

Tim manages to close his mouth and keep it shut after that – if only by the simple force of his clear mortification sealing off his words.

"Timothy."

Terrified eyes peer up at Batman.

"What do you know about us capes? There was a reason Sabini had an interest in you and I'm not convinced it was just a junkie's word and evidence that you're a fan," Batman lays out simply – calmly, regaining control of this discussion.

"I know that you're necessary," Tim replies in a squeak.

Eyes narrow behind the lenses of the cowl.

Tim ducks his head, fully aware that he has not answered Batman's question.

"I know that Gotham needs you," Tim reiterates. "I don't know who you are beneath the masks, and I don't want to know. I just want to help you keep Gotham safe. Because I'm not a mask, I'm just a fan... but I can still help."

Batman regards the young civilian carefully. He has Jason's spirit and determination, Dick's unyielding sweetness, and Barbara's practical acceptance of humanity's flaws.

"You don't know our civilian identities?"

Tim shakes his head. "I don't care about them."

Batman does not believe him – does not believe that he doesn't know, or that he doesn't care. Timothy Drake knows more than enough to be dangerous.

Dick has always been a terrible judge of character – in some ways, he always sees the best in people, in their potential – so his support of Timothy Drake as a non-threat means little.

But Jason is the most astute observer of humanity Bruce has ever encountered – he can read a person's entire psyche in a gesture, find their cracks and weaknesses and apply just the right leverage to break them. And he's never thrown from thinking that a seemingly innocent person is capable of doing a great deal of damage – would never underestimate a threat like that.

Case in point: how he hadn't let go of the potential threat Tim posed to begin with.

Jason had decided Tim was safe.

Batman decides to trust his Robin's judgement; Bruce puts faith in his son.

Batman heaves a sigh.

"It's time to home, Timothy," he says. "This is no place for a child to be, and you shouldn't be out at this time of night."

Timothy frowns.

"It's my city, too," he mumbles.

Batman takes no quarter and as soon as he gets a nod of permission – Jason's taught him how to work with children who aren't like Dick, with an insatiable desire for physical contact – Batman hoists Timothy up and settles him on his hip. Batman holds tight to the child and shoots his grapple gun to carry them down to street level. He sits Timothy on his motorcycle and speeds across the city to Drake's own door.

There is no one home.

Concerning in a very different way.

Batman knew the Drakes were away. Bruce didn't realize the implications of that beyond how Timothy was left unsupervised – hadn't until right now.

"Do you want me to come in," Batman asks, awkward and uncertain of whether it would help at all to walk the kid to his bedroom. Batman should not linger – should not even consider the idea of tucking this neglected child into bed – but Bruce cannot quite bear to drag himself away just yet. He needs to know that Timothy is safe.

Timothy is staring at him like he's shown up as Batman to a career day at school.

"Why?"

"No one's home."

"No one's ever home," Timothy replied blankly, adding. "I don't need a real babysitter, let alone Batman. But Nightwing probably needs backup."

Batman nodded. Accepted that he needed to push the Bruce in him down until they finished with the night's patrol.

Tomorrow he could look into Timothy Drake's circumstances.

"Be safe, Timothy," Batman fare-wells. "Stay off the streets, and be careful, or this will not be our last conversation.

"You be safe, too," Timothy replies. "Or I'll just have to find you again."

Batman almost chuckles. He waits until Timothy locks the door behind him, and then he takes his motorcycle back to where he'd stashed it across the bridge from Robbinsville.

He meets up with Nightwing and finishes patrol.

If he's more reticent than usual Nightwing doesn't comment.

The teenager is still wearing the blinding goofy smile of his, broader now after a successful sweep of Coventry – no new rumors of Tim Drake. And he'd saved a cat from where it had gotten stuck on a gargoyle after it had slipped out of its apartment and ventured off an inopportune ledge beside the balcony.

And because that's the kind of hero Dick is, he chatters on incessantly about the cat and how it wailed and scratched him at first and yowled as he swung around the building, but then it purred and refused to let him go when it realized he'd brought it home.

Beneath the cowl, Batman almost smiles.

When he and Nightwing make it back to the Cave, Jason is not down there – the only evidence that anyone has been down their since he and Nightwing left is the snack left out for them by Alfred. Jason os in bed, asleep and dead to the world when Bruce slips in to check.

Jason is safe.

And Dick is safe.

And Alfred and Barbara are safe.

His family. Safe.

And Tim is... safe enough for the moment.

Tonight, Bruce will sleep.

Tomorrow he will reevaluate the child and his circumstances.

But tonight, Bruce Wayne basks in the truth that has a Family.

And his family is home, and safe.

It's a foreign feeling.

But a good one.


End file.
